Doctor Dearest

“Why don’t we try normal stuff, like politics?” Kieran jokes.

We all groan and Daniel stands, asking the bartender if he can switch the TV near our table over to the Red Sox game. Due to our close proximity—truly, I cannot stress how tightly we are stuffed into this booth—he accidentally bonks my head with his elbow when he sits back down.

“Oh shit.” He reaches over to touch my head. “Did I get you?”

“Only a little bit,” I wince, though it actually feels like he rattled my skull. He apologizes profusely, his face a mask of horror as if he just ruined his chances with me for good.

“It’s totally fine,” I promise with a smile, trying to ignore the fact that it hurts like hell.

Lindsey catches my eye across the table and lifts her margarita in a silent toast, something akin to You gotta roll with the punches, kid—literally.

I smile and take a sip of my drink as Daniel leans in, asking me more about my work in the BICU. Because we’re talking low, just the two of us, Kieran doesn’t call foul on our doctor speak. Which is good, because as of right now, work is the only thing Daniel and I have in common. I cling to the topic with both hands.

Once we finish our drinks, Daniel offers to get us another round.

“Shots?” he asks before he rises—slower this time and with more consideration for his long limbs—and tugs his wallet out of his back pocket.

Everyone grumbles. “I have to be up early tomorrow,” comes from Joel.

“I gotta take call,” Miguel protests half-heartedly.

Lindsey holds up her hands, joining the protests. “If Natalie and I start taking shots, we’ll be up on the table singing ballads within a half-hour. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Kieran laughs. “Well then I demand we do a round of shots.”

The guys laugh and it’s decided we’ll all take exactly half a shot of Fireball. Frat guys across America are rolling their eyes at us, but honestly, I’m not sorry that I care about my liver. It’s a pretty vital organ. Also, I have a terrible singing voice, so really this is best for everyone.

The night is going extremely well, which is why I’m not all that surprised when the door to the pub opens and in walks Connor. I mean, I do choke a little on my second margarita, the tequila burning as it goes down the wrong pipe. Miguel pounds my back as I cough and sputter.

It is that level of dignity and grace I possess when Connor first looks over and spots me.

Hello, you devil.

I narrow my eyes on him, and instead of running in fear like a good little boy, he turns directly for our table. Of course he does—these are his friends after all.

“Oh cool, Connor decided to come,” Joel says, standing up to wave him over.

My first instinct is to run, but alas, my exit would be painfully slow. I’d have to wait as Lindsey and Kieran stood up and moved their chairs, so Joel could scoot out of the booth, then Miguel would slide out next, and they’re both focused on the baseball game so it’s not as if they’ll be quick about it. There’s always option number two: launching myself directly over the table and hoping I land, if not on my feet, at least not on my face. I play through that scenario in my head, and while it does have its merits, ultimately I don’t have time to pull it off because here he is.

“Connor Easton,” Joel says by way of greeting before standing up to exchange one of those manly bro handshakes.

“What’s up, guys?” Connor says, nodding to the group. He scans across the booth and I think he’s going to completely ignore me. Instead, his blue eyes lock with mine in a special little game I like to call torture.

“Natalie,” he says, addressing me personally with a tip of his head.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. A hello is too polite. Ignoring him completely is also out of the question.

I settle for lifting my drink and offering up a thin smile before I take a long sip. I maintain eye contact the whole time.

He returns the gesture with a private little chuckle before glancing down.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

I lean toward him as if hoping I’ll catch a whiff of his thoughts.

Then I realize, a bit too late, that we’re the subject of curious stares from everyone else in the group. I lean back and look at the TV, focusing on the baseball game while seats get shuffled around. There’s definitely not enough room for Connor at our table too. We’re already stuffed to the gills. Then Joel, nice guy that he is, stands up and announces that he’s heading out early, so Connor can have his seat. I’m okay with this arrangement. It leaves a full-size human between us. Miguel is my savior.