Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“No, you don’t understand!” Callie says with a vehemence that takes me back a step. “You haven’t seen the women Connor has gone out with.” She ticks off each one on her newly manicured hand. “There was the girl with the dragon tattoo . . . on her face. The woman who would only eat foods that started with the letter G. The one we found out later was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list—and they’re just the tip of the shitshow. Connor’s a relationship guy, a family guy—he’s not meant to be alone. He’s going to keep searching for his better half and who knows what kind of disaster he’ll stumble across next. But you’re gorgeous! And you know Lainey and you seem normal . . . and you’re a nurse! I mean, Jesus, if Connor made his perfect woman in a computer—you are what would come out!”

A sudden heaviness weighs down on my me, crushing my tone into a whisper. A sad, truthful whisper.

“He doesn’t even see me. We’ve worked together for two years and he barely knows I’m there.”

Callie puts her hand over mine, squeezing. “What if you’re wrong? I can’t believe that Connor wouldn’t notice someone like you. What if he does see you? Or what if he just needs a little nudge to see you? Guys can be really stupid. Sometimes they need help.”

Lainey waves her pointer finger at Callie like it’s a magic wand.

“Also true.”

I let myself think about it—to imagine being set up with Connor. How he would pick me up at my house, maybe bring flowers. How easy our conversation would flow—about life, work, his kids, my brother and sisters.

I picture what it would feel like to make him smile, make him laugh, or even better—to make him groan. To have him look at me with heat and hunger in his eyes . . .

And I want it so much my heart throbs and my mouth goes dry and my vision swims.

But just for a moment.

Because then I come back down to earth . . . to reality. My reality.

“That’s not a chance I can take. I love this town, I love the hospital, I love my job. If Connor had any clue that I have feelings for him and he didn’t feel the same way—I don’t know how I would ever be able to look at him again.”

Callie’s face goes soft with sympathy. Maybe pity.

“My life is in your hands, Callie. Please promise me you won’t say anything.”

Her features tighten with hesitation, like I’m dragging her over a line she doesn’t want to cross. Then she sighs. “Okay, if that’s what you really want . . . then I promise.”

Blessed relief blooms through my chest cavity.

“Thank you.”

Callie loops her arm through mine. “Come on—let’s get a drink.”

“Yes, your hands are empty,” Lainey says like she’s only just noticed. “No empty hands allowed, ladies!”

I walk over to the champagne fountain with them, secure and settled that my secret is safe and nothing will change.

But here’s the thing about Callie Daniels. She may seem all sweet and undevious, but deep down . . . she’s a lying-liar who’s not above lying when she thinks it’s for a worthy cause.

Because even though Callie raised her left hand solemnly when she made me her promise—her other hand was behind her back. With her fingers crossed.

Classic loophole.

But I wouldn’t find that out until later.

After it was already too late.

CHAPTER SIX

Connor

I’m back on days at the hospital. It’s a slow Thursday morning, but that’s the thing about the Emergency Department—it can turn on a dime, and like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you never, ever know what you’re gonna get.

Not all doctors like that aspect of the job—the unpredictability—but I do. It keeps me sharp and in constant learning mode so I can stay on top of my game.

At 11:30 I get nine occupants from a three-car accident.

None of them are seriously injured, thankfully, and a few sutures, a dozen X-rays, two slings, and one neck brace later, I send them on their way with prescriptions to take it easy for the next few days and ibuprofen for muscle pain.

We have lunch breaks built into our schedule, but our schedules are more of a suggestion than a rule.

So I don’t make it down to the hospital cafeteria, where Garrett and Dean are waiting, until two hours later. Garrett texted me on Monday that he wanted to meet up for lunch when I was free.

I grab a sandwich from the counter and take a seat across the square table from Garrett and Dean.

“Hey. Sorry you had to wait for me.”

“No worries,” my brother answers. “The chocolate pudding here kicks ass. I remember it from when Charlotte was born—made the wait worth it.”

I take a bite of my sandwich. I eat sandwiches a lot these days—they’re quick, filling, generally healthy, and require little cleanup—basically the ideal meal for a single guy.