Page 2 of Blind Date with a #Doctor (Love Canyon: Blind Date #3)

Aspen

There’s a note on my desk. Not an email or a calendar invite.

Not even a passive-aggressive Post-it from my assistant reminding me about the paperwork I owe her.

This is folded paper. Actual, honest-to-God paper.

It’s sitting right in the middle of my desk, dead center on top of the contract I was supposed to be reviewing.

I stare at it for a long minute. Then the door. Then back at the note. I don’t know how, but I already know this is trouble. Still, I unfold it anyway.

That’s it. There’s no name and no explanation. Just a bold, handwritten command like this is a perfectly normal way for someone to schedule a date.

“Okay,” I say to the empty room. “This is how people get murdered.”

I flip the note over. Nothing. I even check under my desk, like someone’s crouched down there, watching me read it.

But it’s just me and the note. I have the sudden, creeping realization that I now have to spend the rest of my afternoon trying to figure out which lunatic I know thought this was a good idea.

I run through the list. Coworkers? Doubtful. They’re all too afraid of me to try something like this. My brother? Maybe. But only if his sense of humor has gotten significantly darker since our last family dinner. Nan? Oh, God. This feels exactly like Nan.

The woman’s been on a matchmaking bender lately, and her favorite pastime is staring at me over the top of her wine glass and saying things like, “Sweetheart, you know men won’t wait forever.”

And if Nan’s involved, that means there’s a real possibility that when I show up to Bistro 9 tonight, Carter Reed is going to be sitting at that table. Which…no. That’s insane.

I shove the note into the trash. Pull it back out. Fold it. Unfold it. Stare at it like it’s going to reveal some kind of secret code if I just concentrate hard enough.

My phone buzzes on my desk, and I lunge for it like someone might be texting me the answers. It’s my best friend, Kendra, maybe she’ll be able to make sense of this note.

Kendra: How’s the case going?

Me: Forget the case. I’m being lured to my death.

Kendra: …what.

Me: Mystery note. Blind date. Bistro 9. 7 PM. This is how I die.

Kendra: Girl. That’s either a Hallmark movie or a Dateline episode.

Me: Exactly.

Kendra: Tell me you’re going.

Me: I’m not going.

Me: …

Me: Okay, I might go.

Kendra: BLACK DRESS. You know the one.

Me: Jesus.

But she’s right. Because here’s the thing—this is ridiculous and dangerous. Possibly the dumbest decision I’ve made since agreeing to go on that second date with a guy even after I found out he referred to himself as a “finance bro.”

What if it’s not a prank? Or a murder plot? What if it’s Carter?

I’ve known him forever without really knowing him. We’ve orbited around each other for years—community events, mutual friends, the occasional run-in at the grocery store. I’ve always had the biggest crush.

Carter Reed is hot, smart, and kind. A type of man women in small towns invent excuses to see.

The kind of man I’ve never let myself even consider because I do not have the time or the emotional capacity to get invested in someone who might leave the same way my ex Ryan did.

But.

If this is Nan’s doing—and I’m starting to feel dangerously sure that it is—and if this is Carter…I don’t hate the idea. Which is exactly why I should stay home, work late, watch trashy TV, and eat mac and cheese straight from the pot and tell myself I’m better off.

I open my laptop. Stare at the contract in front of me. Then close it.

Me: Okay. If I die tonight, please avenge me.

Kendra: I’ll wear black and make dramatic speeches. But if you’re not dead at the end of the night, please report back immediately.

Me: Deal.

And just like that, I’m doing this. I pack up, go home, and pull out the black dress Kendra insists makes me look like I’m “effortlessly seductive,” which is hilarious because I’m about as effortlessly seductive as a PowerPoint presentation.

But still. I do my hair, swipe on some lipstick, and stare at myself in the mirror long enough to wonder what the hell I’m doing.

“You’re not getting murdered,” I tell my reflection. “You can leave if there are creepy vibes.”

This is fine.

I slip on my heels, grab my purse, and spend the drive convincing myself that I will walk into Bistro 9, have a laugh, discover which one of Nan’s partners in crime set me up, and go home with a funny story. That’s it.

I park outside the restaurant, my heart pounding so loud I’m half-convinced the valet can hear it. Maybe this is crazy. I should probably leave. But my feet are already moving, carrying me across the parking lot and through the doors before I can stop myself.

The hostess greets me with a smile. “Table for two,” she says, checking the list. “Right this way.”

I follow her—one step after another. Half of me ready to bolt and the other half buzzing with something that feels dangerously exciting. That’s when I see him sitting at the table.

Carter Reed.

He looks up at me with the same stunned expression I’m sure is on my face.

“Oh,” I say, blinking like an idiot. “It’s you.”

He smiles, slow and easy, like this is all just as ridiculous to him as it is to me. “Hey, Aspen.”

And just like that…I’m not so sure I want to leave anymore.