almost appear apathetic as I struggle to suppress my prejudice, but fail miserably.
He addresses my immediate change in mood, “Hello…Miss Ly… are you here? You zoned me out for a few seconds.” He waves his free hand in front of me.
I look into his eyes and question him at point blank, “How are you able to play hooky for a month with all your responsibilities?”
“I’ ll work from here when needed, and Owen will handle the rest, but let’s not waste our time together talking about my work. I want to know more about you. Where can I begin?” he inquires sincerely. I’m thrilled to hear him avoid boasting about his work. He’s not self-absorbed, another attribute to offset his wealth, I remind myself and smile appreciatively inside.
“You already know that I’m a medical-resident. I’m irrationally terrified of heights and snakes, love ‘80s music, Italian food and photography. I hate melted ice cream, and can’t swim to save my life or anyone else’s. I’m an only child, but never once suffered from that syndrome . I’m a quarter Chinese and a quarter Vietnamese and the rest is American. I know that’s a little confusing. My mother is half Chinese and Vietnamese and my father is American. Oh, and one last thing, I believe Mr. Happy Ending only exists in movies. That’s it… that’s me in a plain nutshell,” I divulge to him with a docile smile. “What about you?” I counter.
“I’m also an only child and might slightly suffer from that syndrome .” He winks at me. “I enjoy all kinds of sports, music, and food, hate any kind of condiments, and I’m an incredible swimmer, so you’re in good hands if we’re ever shipwrecked together. I’m American with a possible hint of Italian, so my parents tell me. And who in their right mind hates any form of ice cream even when it’s melted?” He disapprovingly shakes his head with a silly wry smile. I shrug my shoulders and proudly raise my left hand.
“Hate condiments ? Not even ketchup for french fries?” I ask, shocked by his idiosyncrasy. “Who eats them without that yummy, tangy sauce?”
“ Me! I especially hate ketchup and mustard! The smell of it makes me gag,” he reconfirms with a look of disgust, nose and eyes crinkled.
“ We’ll touch on the only child syndrome at a later time. This topic will require at least an entire day to discuss.” I narrow my eyes playfully to simulate an austere expression while his is more mischievous.
“Perfect, I’m guaranteed another day with you .” His tone suddenly turns serious, and I’m caught off guard. “Oh, there’s one more thing you need to know about me. I suffer from a chronic illness called workaholism,” he adds.
I c an barely contain my chuckling. “Work-a-what? Is that contagious?” I ask him lightheartedly. The earlier tension between us starts to melt away as I loosen up.
“ I hear that you can easily catch it from kissing workaholic strangers on a deserted beach,” he counters my teasing. “We’ll have to change our plans for today. I hate to scare you off on our first date…I mean day…together…by forcing you to overcome your fear of heights.” He stumbles over his word after realizing he just slipped and called our adventure a date. “I’ll take a rain check, so you’re not completely off the hook with it,” he smirks and regains his confidence with ease. “We’ll go deep sea fishing instead. You’ll enjoy the clear ocean water. And no need to worry about drowning, you’ll never be out of my sight.”
Just terrific…another sport that I’m incapable of doing, I gripe to myself.
He calls Owen immediately and ask s him to book a private fishing boat for us. Good luck with that , I think. It’ll be a miracle to find someone available in fifteen minutes.
It’s unbelievable what money can do. After about fifteen minutes, Carson cautiously pulls up close to a private dock with Owen’s direction, and I see a mid-sized charter boat with a
He addresses my immediate change in mood, “Hello…Miss Ly… are you here? You zoned me out for a few seconds.” He waves his free hand in front of me.
I look into his eyes and question him at point blank, “How are you able to play hooky for a month with all your responsibilities?”
“I’ ll work from here when needed, and Owen will handle the rest, but let’s not waste our time together talking about my work. I want to know more about you. Where can I begin?” he inquires sincerely. I’m thrilled to hear him avoid boasting about his work. He’s not self-absorbed, another attribute to offset his wealth, I remind myself and smile appreciatively inside.
“You already know that I’m a medical-resident. I’m irrationally terrified of heights and snakes, love ‘80s music, Italian food and photography. I hate melted ice cream, and can’t swim to save my life or anyone else’s. I’m an only child, but never once suffered from that syndrome . I’m a quarter Chinese and a quarter Vietnamese and the rest is American. I know that’s a little confusing. My mother is half Chinese and Vietnamese and my father is American. Oh, and one last thing, I believe Mr. Happy Ending only exists in movies. That’s it… that’s me in a plain nutshell,” I divulge to him with a docile smile. “What about you?” I counter.
“I’m also an only child and might slightly suffer from that syndrome .” He winks at me. “I enjoy all kinds of sports, music, and food, hate any kind of condiments, and I’m an incredible swimmer, so you’re in good hands if we’re ever shipwrecked together. I’m American with a possible hint of Italian, so my parents tell me. And who in their right mind hates any form of ice cream even when it’s melted?” He disapprovingly shakes his head with a silly wry smile. I shrug my shoulders and proudly raise my left hand.
“Hate condiments ? Not even ketchup for french fries?” I ask, shocked by his idiosyncrasy. “Who eats them without that yummy, tangy sauce?”
“ Me! I especially hate ketchup and mustard! The smell of it makes me gag,” he reconfirms with a look of disgust, nose and eyes crinkled.
“ We’ll touch on the only child syndrome at a later time. This topic will require at least an entire day to discuss.” I narrow my eyes playfully to simulate an austere expression while his is more mischievous.
“Perfect, I’m guaranteed another day with you .” His tone suddenly turns serious, and I’m caught off guard. “Oh, there’s one more thing you need to know about me. I suffer from a chronic illness called workaholism,” he adds.
I c an barely contain my chuckling. “Work-a-what? Is that contagious?” I ask him lightheartedly. The earlier tension between us starts to melt away as I loosen up.
“ I hear that you can easily catch it from kissing workaholic strangers on a deserted beach,” he counters my teasing. “We’ll have to change our plans for today. I hate to scare you off on our first date…I mean day…together…by forcing you to overcome your fear of heights.” He stumbles over his word after realizing he just slipped and called our adventure a date. “I’ll take a rain check, so you’re not completely off the hook with it,” he smirks and regains his confidence with ease. “We’ll go deep sea fishing instead. You’ll enjoy the clear ocean water. And no need to worry about drowning, you’ll never be out of my sight.”
Just terrific…another sport that I’m incapable of doing, I gripe to myself.
He calls Owen immediately and ask s him to book a private fishing boat for us. Good luck with that , I think. It’ll be a miracle to find someone available in fifteen minutes.
It’s unbelievable what money can do. After about fifteen minutes, Carson cautiously pulls up close to a private dock with Owen’s direction, and I see a mid-sized charter boat with a
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