Dance with the Devil: Chapter 9

The three of us make our way to the BART station while discussing pleasantries like the weather and the conference. By the time we get off the train a few stops later at 24th Street Mission, Dr. Kincaid has interrogated Grant to within an inch of his life. The poor guy is sweating, and he looks at me every few seconds with what seems like a panicked expression. I’m both intrigued and infuriated, of course—Doctor Devil has no right to be such an ass to Grant.

Flashbacks of Mexico dance through my mind. I remember Grant kissing me on the beach and then immediately getting an emergency via email on my phone. I remember sitting on the beach and typing up patient reports for Dr. Kincaid instead of cuddling with Grant. Ari introduced me to him, and though we only dated for a couple of weeks, we never slept together.

He broke it off because he told me I was a workaholic and he wanted someone more carefree.

I wrote over fifty hate emails to Dr. Kincaid after that, blaming him for everything, but I never sent them.

I didn’t quit. I should have, but I didn’t. Instead, I just deleted the emails and moved on.

Seeing Grant at the hotel tonight reminded me of how much chemistry we once had. I know it won’t go anywhere. I’m still a workaholic. But to remember a sliver of time where I felt free and not tied down by my past… it’s nice. So I indulged Grant and invited him to dinner.

It’s not like I had any reason not to.

We all walk up to a Mexican restaurant called El Farolito, and Dr. Kincaid ushers for Grant to go first. He holds the door for me to go next, and I make sure to brush against him as much as I can, and I swear I feel his body stiffen against mine. Grant offers to pay for dinner, but since the restaurant only takes cash, Dr. Kincaid pulls out his wallet and smirks as he walks up to the counter, pays for our meals, and leaves another one-hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar.

I barely conceal my rolled eyes, and my boss glares at me before turning away and securing a table for us.

“He’s fun,” Grant says through his teeth.

I bark a laugh but it doesn’t feel genuine. Instead, I knit my brows together as Dr. Kincaid sits down and gestures for us to follow. He was fun that first night—and I’ve seen bits and pieces of his more carefree personality here and there over the last three days.

“He’s had a long day,” I say automatically. Defensively.

“Yeah, sure,” Grant mumbles.

Our order arrives quickly, and Dr. Kincaid continues his interrogation of Grant. He asks about his family, his college degree, his job, and then he gets to the question I’ve been dreading.

“How do you and Francesca know each other?”

Grant laughs and places an arm around my shoulders, and I swear I see flames in Dr. Kincaid’s eyes. It spurs me on, and I lean ever so slightly into Grant’s arms.

“I only know her as Frankie, not Francesca. Sorry. It surprises me every time.”

Dr. Kincaid’s nostrils flare slightly as his eyes flick between us, waiting for an answer.

“We dated briefly,” I tell my boss. “My friend Ari grew up with him and set us up last year, but it didn’t last long.”

Dr. Kincaid’s eyes bore into Grant’s arm around my shoulder. “I’m not sure he got the hint,” he says, smiling politely as he licks his fingers.

Grant removes his arm and clears his throat. He’s barely touched his burrito. “I should go, actually. I forgot I have an appointment.”

“Hmm. It’s quite late for an appointment,” Dr. Kincaid says, tilting his head as he takes a sip of the beer I hadn’t realized he purchased. A quick glance tells me that we all have one, and I grab mine and take a few large gulps.

“Yeah, it’s, uh, a thing… thanks for dinner. Good night,” he tells me, giving me an apologetic smile and slipping out of our side of the booth before walking out of the restaurant.

Once Grant is gone, I swivel my head back to my boss and narrow my eyes. “You were rude.”

Dr. Kincaid is trying not to smile as he eats his burrito. The way he eats it should be a crime—slowly, with reverence, licking his lips and letting his eyes flutter closed with each bite.

A damn crime.

Bastard.

“Only stating the obvious, Francesca. If he was worth your time, he would’ve reached out sooner. Or he wouldn’t have let you go in the first place.”

“A bossy know-it-all and a relationship guru. Hashtag blessed,” I murmur, taking another large sip of my beer.

Dr. Kincaid laughs.

He laughs.

I’m so startled that the rim of the beer bottle remains on my lips for several seconds as I take in the sight.

First of all, it completely changes his face. His eyes go from intense to light, and he has dimples. Two of them. Second, his teeth are straight and white, and the lines around his eyes make him look slightly older than he usually does. No wonder he doesn’t seem his age. He’s too busy being serious and curmudgeonly to actually form laugh lines.

“The devil has a sense of humor,” I joke to cover for the fact that I’m all flushed and fluttery from watching him laugh.

“Who knew,” he says, taking a sip of beer and looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

“You were still very mean to Grant,” I tell him, taking a large bite of my burrito. I nearly moan out loud. It’s fucking delicious.

“Yes, well, I didn’t care for him.”

“Why?” I ask with my mouth full of food. Just as I say it, a large dollop of salsa drops onto my chest. “Fuck.”

Setting the massive burrito down, I realize we forgot napkins, so I use my finger and scoop the salsa up before bringing it to my lips. As I do, I look up at Dr. Kincaid with the intention of making a joke about being a garbage person, but his eyes are suddenly dark, hooded, and glazed over as they watch me. He lazily lets his eyes wander over my skin before moving them up to mine. I stifle a gasp as they drift down to my lips briefly, because his expression is obvious.

Why?

Why didn’t he care for Grant?

I feel like I know the answer, but I’m too afraid to ask again.

My whole body is burning under his gaze for the rest of the meal, and my clit throbs as he places a hand on my lower back when we leave.

Every touch, every graze of his fingers, every flick of his green eyes on my body…

I am in deep fucking shit with him.

We decide to walk to one of his favorite ice cream shops afterward since it’s a nice, warm-ish night. It’s only a five-block walk to Humphry Slocombe, but it feels hours long under the tension threatening to strangle us. I get a cone of chocolate dipped strawberry, which is the best ice cream I’ve ever had. Dr. Kincaid gets peanut butter fudge ripple, and I giggle at the name for a minute as he scowls down at me. Even more so when he gets a tiny bit in his trimmed beard.

“Is there something you find amusing, Francesca?”

I press my lips together and reach my hand up to his face, swiping at his beard and bringing the peanut butter fudge ripple drop to my lips and sucking.

His eyes do that dark, glazed-over thing again, and I swallow the victorious smile as we continue slowly walking back to the BART station so that we can finish our ice cream. It takes me a second to realize that if it wasn’t for Grant, tonight would’ve felt like a date.

With Doctor Devil.

Experiencing the real San Francisco—the part I doubt many tourists venture to. Eating the best burrito of my life. Flirting a little bit. Sexual tension abound. Walking through the Mission District in search of the best ice cream ever. His hand on my lower back whenever we pass someone, like he’s protecting me. The strawberry dress I bought just for him. Everything about tonight feels… different.

He feels different, especially when it’s just him and me.

Not to mention, he’s much less pretentious in person—we haven’t eaten at a fancy restaurant once. He seems to know his way around the cool parts of the city, too—even balking at the idea of a taxi earlier in lieu of taking public transportation, despite obviously having the means to leave very large tips. Everything about him is an enigma, and he’s constantly keeping me on my toes.

I can’t help but be intrigued by everything he does, and somehow, despite everything, feel comforted by his presence. And tonight… it feels like something is different between us.

It makes me want to tell him things I shouldn’t, but my mouth is moving before I can stop myself.

“The baby blankets are personal,” I tell him after we get seated next to each other on BART. There’s almost no one else in this car, so we have privacy. I can’t look at him, so I lean forward and stare at the seat in front of us. “You asked me before why I made baby blankets, and the reason is because I had a late miscarriage. I lost the baby at twenty weeks.”

Dr. Kincaid goes still in my peripheral vision. He’s watching me carefully, and panic floods me when I realize I just told him about the baby.

Fuck.

What a way to make him uncomfortable, Frankie.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I sigh and lean back in my seat.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you my sob story⁠—”

His hand shoots out to my thigh, and the warmth makes me snap my eyes open. As I do, he removes his hand and swallows audibly.

I still can’t look at him.

“Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry for your loss. That must’ve been difficult.”

“It was. I had a rough period for about a year, but I’m all good now.”

“And the ex-fiancé…” he trails off, and I look over at him. He’s watching me expectantly.

“Was the father,” I confirm. “After it… happened, we weren’t the same. Having to return all of your nursery furniture will do that to a couple. One night he got drunk and blamed me for everything. It was a malfunction with my body. Somehow, the placenta detached too early, and he used that as an excuse to blame me. The next morning he was gone, but he asked me to move out. It was about two months after the miscarriage, and honestly, I was relieved when he asked me to leave. I never would’ve done it myself. It meant a fresh start for me, but it also meant I could stop pretending to be okay. I packed my things and moved out. I took only my clothes and the one baby blanket I’d made for the baby, and that’s the long, convoluted story of the baby blankets. They bring me joy, and knowing they’re going to babies who made it earthside is… healing, somehow.”

I clamp my mouth shut and look away again. I said too much, and any second now, he’s going to make a comment about how uncomfortable he is.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, and at first I think I mishear him.

“Hmm?”

“You. Are. Incredible,” he says again, and his voice is full of some kind of raw emotion I can’t place. It stuns me silent, and I look over at him and watch as he swallows, as he inhales through his nose, as he turns his gaze to me. “To go through something like that and come out the other side to help people…”

My heart is pounding in my chest as his eyes flick to my lips.

I’m not imagining it.

There’s something there—something between us, pulled taut and ready to snap.

Maybe it’s what happened last night, but I don’t think so. It’s been there all along, and I’ve just been too naive or angry to notice.

Too presumptuous about the persona I assumed he had.

“Your tattoo…” he says slowly, eyes flicking down to my left wrist. “What does it mean?”

“My mom bought me this pink orchid when I found out I was pregnant. It sort of came to represent the baby in a strange way. When I…” I swallow. “After I came home from the hospital, the orchid had shed all of its flowers. Like somehow, it had… died. I got the tattoo a few months later to represent what I went through. To remind myself that somewhere, the orchid is still flowering. To give myself strength. It’s symbolic,” I finish, shrugging.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Awkward silence passes between us. I feel like I’ve overshared, so I turn to face him fully.

“What about you?” I ask dumbly. “No kids, no wife… is there a reason?”

He shrugs. “Not really. It’s not like I don’t want a wife and kids. The opportunity just never presented itself.”

“Hard to meet people when you’re busy bossing your assistant around,” I tease.

His lips quirk. “Perhaps that’s it.”

“So, you want kids?”

He nods. “I do. I’m an only child. Well, I am now,” he adds. I raise my eyebrows with anticipation, and he continues. “I had a younger brother. I was five when he was born, and the entire time my mom was pregnant with him, I obsessed over having a little brother.” He swallows, his throat bobbing, and I feel something crack inside of me when I see the anguish flickering behind his pupils. “I even wrote a book with all the things we were going to do. My mom wanted to name him Rocco, so that’s what we called him. Rocky for short.”

“What happened?” I ask, whispering.

He rubs the back of his neck before looking down at his shoes with a pained stare. “His birth was complicated. Long. Drawn out. Shoulder dystocia. That was the official diagnosis. My mom lost a lot of blood, and Rocco went without oxygen for too long. He came out blue—I’d been in the hospital room with my parents, and all of a sudden, a bunch of doctors came rushing in, pushing me out of the way as they tried to save him.”

My eyes sting with unshed tears. I didn’t have the rushing of the doctors. Everyone expected it, because my baby was already dead. I can’t imagine being a child and not understanding what happened.

“Anyway, we had a funeral for Rocky that next week. My parents stopped talking, and they got divorced a few months later. My whole life disappeared in the blink of an eye, but I still think about what would’ve happened if Rocco survived. Baseball games and birthday parties. S’mores and camping trips.” He looks back up at me, his green eyes emotive and bright. “So, to answer your question, yes. I always imagined having my own,” he adds thoughtfully. “Even if I can’t have that childhood I dreamt of, I’d like to experience it in some other way, you know?”

“I understand.”

“And you?”

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. But especially after everything happened…” I look down and pull my lower lip between my teeth. The next thing I know, I’m blurting something out that I haven’t even told Ari. “I actually have an appointment with a sperm bank in a few weeks.”

He’s so quiet, and when I look over at him, his eyes are doing that hypnotized thing again.

“To discuss having a baby on my own,” I add, in case that wasn’t obvious. “I have financial stability, thanks to you and this job. A house. Health insurance. I’m at a great place mentally. I’m almost twenty-nine. Time’s ticking for me, too. I don’t need a man, so why not?” His expression seems to sour slightly. God, why am I telling him this? “It won’t be until later this year at the earliest, and I’ll be sure to find cover for maternity leave when the time comes, if that’s what you’re worried about⁠—”

“I’m not worried about that,” he nearly growls. “You’re going to need support. Resources. Help. You can’t do it alone.”

“I can,” I counter, narrowing my eyes. “But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“I just mean, let me know how I can help. I’m your boss, yes, but this is a massive undertaking. Appointments, sick leave, mental health checks… they’re all things to consider.”

“I’ve considered it all. I want a baby, and I don’t want to wait.”

He looks conflicted. His eyes are darker now, and they scan my face. “Brave and incredible,” he murmurs.

It makes me blush, but I don’t respond. Instead, we arrive back at Powell Street and exit the BART station. Dr. Kincaid is quiet as we walk back to the hotel in near silence. Once we’re in the elevator, his eyes peruse my face briefly before running down to my neck. My skin prickles under his attention.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, his eyes locking onto something near my throat.

“What do you mean?”

“You have a very faint bruise around your neck,” he answers, voice low.

My eyes flit between his, searching for a confession—for something to indicate that he’s fucking with me. But his expression is neutral. There’s nothing to clue me in to what he’s thinking.

“Oh, I have no idea. Must’ve been a sleep injury.”

At that, something shutters behind his pupils, but there’s no other manifestation of what happened last night.

He knows. He woke up. And he chose not to tell me. Despite our nice dinner, so he’s either a sociopath who enjoys doing what he does and doesn’t plan on ever telling me.

Or… he knows I was awake, too.

The elevator doors slide open, and we both walk to the door of the suite. After opening it, he lets me through and grabs his laptop bag.

“I have some work to do. I’ve rented out the conference room downstairs until midnight, so I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. Thank you for dinner and ice cream. I had a nice time.”

His eyes slowly drag down my body, and I physically shiver. Looking back up at me, his jaw tics several times before he speaks.

“Don’t forget to lock your door.”

I lift my chin and nod once. “Okay. Good night, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Call me Dante.”

“Only if you call me Frankie,” I reply, smirking.

Then I walk to the bedroom door and close it, making sure he can hear the heavy lock sliding into place.

Once I hear him leave, I unlock it.

And now we wait.

March 7th

I can’t get the thought out of my head—Francesca carrying my child. It started as a fleeting fantasy, something I could brush off, but now it’s all I can think about. The idea of her body changing, growing round with my child… it feels like an obsession I can’t shake. The thought consumes me, day and night, filling every corner of my mind with an intensity I can barely contain.

I imagine it. Her hand resting on her swollen belly, the faint smile she’d give as she feels our baby move… my baby. It would be a part of me growing inside her, something no one else could ever give her. A bond that no one could break. She’d be mine, truly mine, in every way. Not just in my mind, but in reality, forever.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she belongs to me. No one else can have her. I’ve made sure of that. I’ve watched her, studied her, planned every detail. The men who look at her, the ones who think they have a chance—they’re fools. Grant was the biggest fool of them all, and I’m glad to be rid of him. They don’t know that she’s already spoken for, that she’s already mine in ways they could never understand. I’d never let anyone else touch her. I’d destroy them first.

I’ve kept my distance, played the role of the professional, of her boss. But it’s getting harder. The more I think about her, the more I want to close the distance, to claim what’s mine.

It’s strange, this possessiveness. I’ve never felt this way before. The need to keep her close, to protect her, to keep her all to myself—it’s overwhelming. I know it’s not normal, but normal doesn’t matter anymore.

I’ll make it happen. I’ll make her mine, completely and utterly. And nothing, no one, will ever take her away from me.

Not now, not ever.