Cynda and the City Doctor - Theodora Taylor Page 0,9

I found myself trying not to laugh. “They don’t have that in England?”

“No, they don’t have this particular dish where I come from.”

“Well Egg Foo Young’s kind of like this fried egg pancakey omelet sort of dish. We also make a sandwich called the St. Paul with it—it’s pretty famous, at least around here. But anyway when you have egg foo young alone, this is the gravy they put over it. And if you’re real St. Louis like my roommate, you order pork fried rice and gravy off menu. St. Louis Style Chinese food is like a whole Food Network documentary. So, why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think?”

I sat down at the table and beckoned him forward. Like I did with my junior-high-school-age twin stepsiblings when I was encouraging them to try new things.

“Do you at least have chopsticks?”

“Man, you are not in London anymore,” I answered. “Sit your butt down and try this on already.”

He sat down across from me with the bowl I’d given him. And I had to suppress a smile at the way he hesitantly dipped the spoon into the dish, lifted it slowly, then finally gave it the smallest of nibbles.

I took back what I said about him being like the twins. He was even worse.

But then his eyes widened. “It’s good,” he exclaimed. “It’s actually good!”

I laughed, loving his reaction to the comfort food that had gotten me through so many twelve-hour shifts. “When I came to St. Louis for nursing school after growing up in Guadalajara, I wanted to slap my mama for never telling me Chinese food could taste so good. She grew up here.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So you grew up in Mexico, but your mother is from St. Louis?”

“No, I grew up in Guadalajara, Missouri. It’s a small town, a couple hours west of here. Missouri also has towns called Paris, Amsterdam, and Cairo. My mom went to high school in a city called Normandy and lived in a neighborhood called Beverly Hills. Missouri loves borrowing names like that.”

He finishes his bite before responding with, “You’re naming conventions are certainly more interesting than the ones in England. For most of my formative years, I attended a very English boarding school in a very English town. No whimsy about it.”

“Wow, that sounds boring.”

“It was actually,” he agreed with a laugh.

God, he’s handsome when he laughs. The thought comes without warning. And suddenly it feels like I’m in high school again. Back when I was still capable of things like crushes and being surprised when a boy I thought was cute turned out to like me too.

We continued eating in comfortable silence after that. But then he asked, “The Fine Prince? Is that truly what they call me behind my back.”

“Yup,” I answered. “But not me. I just call you plain old Dr. Prince.”

“You also have a nickname if you didn’t know already,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “And a reputation.”

I raised both my eyebrows right on back at him. “For real?”

“Yes, for real,” he said. His tone stayed casual, but I was pretty sure I detected an underlying note of petty glee. “If you’re wondering about my cool attitude toward you, it’s because I’ve been warned by quite a few of your spurned admirers not to pursue anything with Nurse America.”

I had to give him credit. As clapbacks went, his wasn’t half-bad. But then he ruined the effect by screwing up his face and admitting, “I don’t understand the nickname, but I have heard you called that.”

I shrugged and shook my head. “It’s a reference to this dumb thing I did a couple of years ago. A national pageant called Beauty Queen of America—though most people call it Queen America for short. I was crowned Princess Missouri before that, but when I competed in the big Queen America competition I didn’t win. So calling me Nurse America isn’t exactly right.”

“Ah…” he said with a nod. “Then I won’t call you that. Even behind your back.”

Something warm fluttered in her chest. “Thank you.”

I graced him with a beauty queen smile before returning to my food. I was down to my last few bites. And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found myself eating way slower. Taking the time to chew each and every spoonful instead of wolfing down my post-shift reward meal like I usually do.

Lingering.

The word floated into my head like a third-grade spelling challenge.

Yes, I admitted to myself. I was lingering. Wanting