Second Opinion

Callan showed up at Clementine ten minutes early.

He didn’t go in. Instead, he waited on the sidewalk. The evening air was humid and smelled of fresh asphalt.

Experience had taught him that waiting out front—walking in together—helped settle nerves.

At precisely 8:00, a taxi pulled up.

Dr. Leclerc stepped out.

The silk blouse and practical pants were gone, replaced by a blue-and-white jumpsuit. Silver hair, now loose, parted to one side. Makeup vivid but restrained. Silver earrings framed her face, catching what little light the evening had left.

She smiled when she saw him, took two steps from the curb, and pulled him into a hug. She smelled like coconut and sunshine.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked, pulling back.

“Not long,” he said, reaching for the door.

She stepped past him and into the bar.

It was everything it should be—small, cozy, dimly lit, and intimate. A low jazz guitar hummed from a corner speaker, blending with the muted clink of glasses and the quiet murmur of conversation.

His recent experience with Tricia Langley should’ve been enough proof that mixing women and work was a bad idea. A dangerous one.

But this wasn’t that. At least, that’s what he told himself.

This wasn’t a romantic pursuit. Dr. Leclerc—Evelyn, as he’d learned from her clinic’s webpage—was more like a case study. A curiosity.

What unsettled him wasn’t how easily she’d seen through the shell he’d spent years perfecting.

It was how she hadn’t flinched.

“Sit anywhere you like,” a server said, breezing past.

The bar was full. A group of fashionable women dominated the large communal table in the centre.

They sat at a table by the window.

“You look lovely,” he offered.

A smile touched her lips; she looked down, avoiding his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, almost too quickly: “I don’t go out much.”

Callan let that hang. She remained composed, but the way she smoothed her napkin twice before setting it on her lap gave something away.

“I find most men my age…” she began, then shook her head, searching for the right phrase. “Anyway, I’m rarely asked.”

He studied her for a moment. “Intimidate them?”

That earned a quiet laugh. Not defensive—more like tired.

“I suppose I do,” she said. “Unintentionally.”

She smiled, but Callan could tell it was reflex. Not the kind that meant anything. “I had a husband once.”

Callan didn’t press.

“He liked quiet women. That’s not me.” She shrugged, smoothing her napkin. “Now I don’t get asked.”

Callan gave a nod. “You carry yourself like someone who doesn’t need rescuing.”

Her smile returned, but this time it reached her eyes.

“Does that bother you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He picked up his menu but didn’t read it. “I’m not afraid of sharp edges.”

A pause hung between them. The only sounds were soft conversations and the clink of glasses from the bar.

The server returned, tablet in hand. “What can I get you both?”

“I’ll have the bourbon,” Callan said. “Neat.”

“Gin,” Evelyn added. “One rock.”

The server nodded and disappeared.

Callan turned back to her. “Same order as the office.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t reinvent myself on weekends.”

“No need,” he said.

Her gaze lingered on him now, more direct.

“You keep things simple, don’t you?”

“I try.”

“Does it work?”

He considered that. “I guess that depends what you mean by ‘work.’”

She smiled again, but it was quieter this time. Not playful—just present.

Then, voice low: “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I wasn’t sure I would.”

“Yet here we are.”

The drinks arrived, cold and clean. Evelyn wrapped her fingers around the base of the glass, grounding herself.

“You can relax,” he said gently. “This isn’t a second session.”

“No?” she asked.

He raised his glass. “Call it… a second opinion.”

She laughed—genuine this time. The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Became something unnameable.

Something closer to curiosity.

Evelyn took a sip of her drink, then set it down with a soft clink.

Her eyes met his across the table. “You intrigue me.”

“How so?”

She took another drink, longer this time.

“You just do.”

“That’s unfair.”

She shrugged. “I’m kind of a bitch like that.”

Callan laughed, then asked, “Do you ever tire of dealing with other people’s problems?”

Another shrug from Evelyn. “It pays the bills.”

“Do you ever deal with people whose problems aren’t real problems?”

Her eyes darkened slightly. Like a slow-moving storm rolling in.

“Perception is reality, Mr. McWard.”

He caught the barb. Filed it away. Replied with his best shit-eating grin.

“Meaning if I feel it’s a problem, then it’s a problem?”

“Exactly. Human beings are all different. What bothers you might not bother me.”

“What sort of things bother you?” he asked.

She thought about the question, hard. He could see her toying with the idea of changing the subject. She didn’t.

“For one, men who discount the intensity of feelings they arbitrarily decide are unimportant.”

Then she raised an eyebrow and added:

“Or not manly enough.”

This stung, but not in the usual way. It had nothing to do with masculinity. His goal was to not burden people with his shit, and he was at a loss how to articulate this.

So to stall, he pointed at Evelyn’s now empty glass.

“Another round?”

She eyed him sardonically.

Then nodded.

He ordered her another gin over ice and an elixir containing lavender, pineapple juice, and whiskey.

He drummed his fingers on the table, struggling to respond to Evelyn’s challenge.

“I don’t think about it in terms of manliness,” he said. “It’s more about… containment.”

“Containment,” she repeated, as the new drinks arrived.

She lifted her fresh gin, turned the glass once in her hand, then met his eyes again.

“Sounds clinical.”

“Maybe it is,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when people bleed all over each other. I’d rather mop my own floor.”

“That’s vivid.”

“Yeah, not my best metaphor.”

She pressed on “Even when someone offers to help?”

He gave a half-smile, the kind that didn’t go anywhere. “Especially then.”

She let that sit for a beat. Didn’t push. Just sipped, observing.

Then, casually: “How long have you been single?”

The question came like a dart, quiet, fast, deliberate.

Callan laughed, caught off guard by her aim. “That’s abrupt.”

“Isn’t that the point?” she said. “We’re not friends. I don’t have to dance around it.”

He liked that about her. The clean, surgical way she approached a conversation.

“A while,” he said. “Mostly by choice.”

“Mostly?”

“There was someone,” he admitted. “In Florida. A cop.”

He paused, fingers tightening slightly on his glass. Tricia’s face flickered through his mind—sunlight on her face, blood on her lip, how she’d turned from lover to adversary with a single blade.

We were dangerous together. Too much alike in the ways that mattered.

“Didn’t end well.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Law enforcement partners offer a unique challenge.”

He nodded. “It was… unconventional.”

A pause.

She smiled faintly. “How so?”

He wasn’t ready to fully unpack the Tricia experience. How she stabbed him after the episode in Belle Glade. Or how he tried his best to blow her head off right afterward.

So instead, he offered the abridged version.

“It just didn’t work out. Same question for you.”

Evelyn’s smile faltered. Her eyes dropped for a second—maybe thinking, maybe bracing.

“No,” she said.

Just that. No elaboration.

Callan let it sit. He wasn’t one to pry, but the silence that followed wasn’t quite comfortable.

He took a sip of the lavender concoction he hadn’t asked for. It wasn’t terrible.

He watched her—looser now. Not sloppy, but less measured. A second drink in. She’d begun to unfold in ways he suspected she rarely let herself.

And with that came the realization:

Professional Dr. Leclerc had been easier to deal with.

Evelyn swirled the ice in her glass, watching him over the rim like she was reading a case file she’d already half-diagnosed.

“You’re a difficult man to get a straight answer from,” she said.

Callan raised an eyebrow. “You prefer straight answers?”

“I prefer honest ones.”

“They’re not always the same.”

“That sounds like something people say right before they lie.”

He smirked. “And what do those people say before they manipulate?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the manipulator.”

“Touché.”

She leaned forward a little, elbows resting on the table. “What’s your tell, Callan? Everyone has one.”

He took a breath, then gave a lazy shrug. “You go first.”

“Oh, I bite my thumbnail,” she said, mock-sweet. “Or push too far.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m saying it now.”

He glanced away, just for a second to recalibrate. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But she did.

“You don’t like that I’m poking, do you?” she said.

Callan didn’t answer. Just held her gaze. Flat. Measured.

She smiled—small, satisfied.

“You’re getting annoyed.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s in the jaw. And your blink rate just dropped.”

He exhaled, slow. Then gave her a tight smile.

“You are testing me, Doctor?”

“I was. But you just passed.”

“Interesting metric.”

“It’s not about passing or failing,” she said lightly. “It’s about how you respond when things don’t go your way.”

He studied her, the curve of her glass between her fingers, the glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.

“You do this with all your ex-patients?” he asked.

“Only the ones who flirt back without meaning to.”

Callan leaned in, resting his arms on the table now. “What makes you think I didn’t mean to?”

She paused. Just long enough for him to wonder if it meant something.

“Because your hands haven’t moved once since I sat down.”

That one landed. Not a direct hit—more like a note slid under a locked door.

Callan didn’t react. But something behind his eyes tightened.

He raised his glass and drank.

“Like I said,” she murmured, “you keep things contained.”

She was about to say more but was interrupted by the speedy server.

“Another round?”

Callan and Evelyn answered at the same time. “Yes.”

The server nodded and zipped away to log their order.

Evelyn didn’t miss a beat.

“You’re dangerous,” she said.

Callan’s brow furrowed. Not because she was wrong.

Because it sounded like a guess.

“What makes you say that?”

Her grin was immediate—and real. Like she’d been waiting all night to drop the punchline.

“It’s the thousand-yard stare in those gorgeous blue eyes, Callan.”

He let out a dry breath of amusement. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

“You were. That’s what makes it worse.”

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight again. He didn’t like being read. Not well. Not quickly. And not when someone seemed to enjoy doing it.

Evelyn caught the flicker, the faint storm cloud behind his silence.

“There it is again,” she said, voice light. “Right there. Just under the surface.”

He met her gaze, flat and unblinking.

“You’re pushing.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Would it matter if I said I was just curious?”

A beat passed. The air between them, taut. The bar was louder now. The group of women at the communal table was laughing.

Callan leaned forward, arms still folded on the table, but looser now. Contained again.

“You know what they say about people who go poking around in locked rooms,” he said.

“They get invited in?” she offered.

“Or they get hurt.”

Evelyn didn’t look away.

“Maybe I’m not as soft as you think.”

He gave a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re soft.”

Another pause. The kind with more weight than words.

Just then, their drinks arrived. The lavender elixir for him. The third gin for her.

She raised hers. “To dangerous men and poor decisions.”

Callan clinked his glass to hers.

“To the ones who know better,” he said.

“This has been lovely, Evelyn, but I think it’s time for me to head out.”

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and asked,

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to leave? It’s early, you’re a grown-up.”

“Unless you’re not really as unattached as you let on,” she added, before draining her glass.

Callan set his glass down a little harder than he meant to.

Not loud. But enough.

Her comment sat there between them, fizzing like a live wire.

“I’m unattached,” he said evenly.

Evelyn raised a brow, slow. “That wasn’t a denial. That was a statement under oath.”

“I don’t lie,” he said.

“Everyone lies. Especially the ones who say they don’t.”

He stared at her.

Something inside him, that thing he kept caged, pressed a little closer to the bars.

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “for someone so good at reading people, you sure like to provoke without understanding what they might be capable of.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” she said. “You poke the dark corners and wait to see what moves.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Evelyn watched him.

“You’re angry,” she said, not unkindly. “Not loud-angry. Just... tired of pretending you’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he had none.

She leaned back, studying him with the kind of focus that made most people squirm.

He didn’t squirm.

But he wanted to.

“What would you do,” she asked, “if I stood up right now and walked out without another word?”

His eyes didn’t move.

“I’d finish my drink.”

“Would you call me later?”

“No.”

“Would you care?”

Another, longer pause.

“I don’t know,” he said.

She smiled again, gently this time.

“That,” she said, “is the most honest thing you’ve said all evening.”

Callan didn’t respond. Just held her gaze. The storm inside him wasn’t rage now—it was something quieter. Wilder. Harder to leash.

Evelyn leaned in.

The candles on the table painted her silver hair gold, her cheekbones like cut glass.

“What’s the plan, Callan?” she asked, voice low. “You run because you don’t know what this is… or you stay and find out?”

The question didn’t land like a dare.

It landed like an invitation he wasn’t sure he could afford to accept.

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

And then—he stayed.

His hand moved for the first time all night. Not far. Just across the table. Fingers curled lightly around the base of her glass, as if grounding himself in the decision.

Evelyn watched the gesture, then looked up—meeting his eyes.

She leaned in further. Close enough to count the freckles on his nose.

And then she kissed him.

Not sweet.

Not soft.

It was deliberate. Controlled. A test disguised as surrender.

She pulled back first. Her lips barely parted. Her breath a whisper.

“Still just a second opinion,” she said, and tossed back the last of her gin like a woman drinking down her own dare.

Callan didn’t move.

Not right away.

He just watched her—like a man who’d just taken one step off a ledge.

And knew exactly how far down it went.

“Why did you break up with your last partner?”

Callan was mid-sip. The question caught wrong in his throat, he coughed once, but still rattled.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said.

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but something more. The way a surgeon might study a wound right before deciding whether to cut deeper.

“She ended it?”

“No.”

“You did?”

“No.”

He looked out the window.

“So, what happened?”

He looked back at her.

For a moment, the weight of Belle Glade hung between them. Blood, heat, and the memory of a woman he had gotten too close, who to drove a blade into his side.

Callan leaned back.

“She stopped trusting me,” he said.

Evelyn swirled the last shard of ice in her glass. “Did she have a reason?”

“Not anything real.”

Evelyn nodded, her voice softening, but not retreating.

“Not to you, maybe.”

It wasn’t said with malice. But he felt something in his expression change. Hardened. Or just went still in a way most people wouldn’t notice.

He was drunk now, sharing more than he intended.

“I was supposed to be a solution, but I refused to help her with something.”

As close to the truth as he was going to give her.

“I understand.” She pushed back from the table. “Let’s go for a walk.”

#

They stepped out into the night. The heat had settled into the pavement, rising in soft waves. Somewhere down the block, a siren wailed. He didn’t look.

At first, they didn’t speak. Just walked.

Side by side. Close, but not touching.

The street was empty, lights bleeding amber onto the sidewalk. Evelyn walked with her hands in her pockets. Callan kept his at his sides, shoulders loose, eyes always scanning.

After a block, she asked, “Have you always dodged tough questions?”

He gave a faint shrug. “Only the ones that don’t need to be answered.”

She smiled at that.

“You ever feel like, I don’t know, you were meant to be the villain in someone’s story?” she asked.

They walked another block in silence before he said, “Only when I’m honest with myself.”

He realized he hurt those close to him.

She nodded, once. Like he’d said something useful.

At the corner, she stopped.

Turned to face him.

The wind caught her hair enough to soften the edge she wore like armour.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“You call a cab.”

“And then?”

He met her eyes.

“You go home.”

“Alone?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took a step closer. Not a threat. But close enough to make the air between them feel electric.

Evelyn’s lips curled into the faintest smile.

“Well,” she said. “Let me know if I at least make the short list.”

Then she turned. Walked ahead without waiting.

Callan didn’t follow.

Because, once again, he wasn’t the only one holding a knife.