Getting Real (Getting Some)

I was a member of Ladies Who Write—a sisterhood of girls, like a sorority, who loved writing. After college, Presley, Aubrey, and Libby Warren formed LWW Enterprises, a multimedia corporation based out of Port Hudson. We’ve all stayed in touch—our friendship strong.

Aubrey’s hazel eyes scan over the navy-sweatpants, gray T-shirt-wearing, braless wonder that is me.

“Why are you home so early?”

I shrug, sipping my crisp, very alcoholic beverage. “It was a bust. There was no chemistry.”

Presley glances at her wrist. “You were out with . . . what was his name? Brad, Chad?”

“Evan.”

“Close enough. You were out with Evan for barely two hours. That’s not enough time to tell if there’s chemistry.”

“It was for us. He felt it too. He didn’t even ask if I wanted coffee or dessert. It was the main course and wam-bam-check-please.”

Her eyes narrow perceptively.

“You told him the twisted ball story, didn’t you?”

“Not again, Violet,” Aubrey groans.

“It’s a good story!”

“We talked about this.” Presley’s thick dark hair sways on her shoulder as she reprimands me like the big sister I always wish I had. “You’re self-sabotaging. Pushing these guys away before they get a chance to know you and using swollen testicles to do it.”

“Discussing a patient’s scrotum splitting open is not first date material!” Aubrey adds.

Nolan, Presley’s boyfriend gets up from the couch behind them.

“And on that note, I’m going to see what’s taking Knox so long in the kitchen.”

From off-screen, Knox’s voice calls out, “Babe, not the nut story again.”

Aubrey calls back, “That’s what I said! See,” she tells me, “even Knox nixed the nut story, and that man isn’t shy about anything.”

“He asked me about interesting cases!” I defend myself. “And Connor said he’d never—”

“And there it is.” Presley points at the screen. “There’s your real problem. Connor Daniel-itis strikes again. You’ve had it for months. Years.”

I moved to Lakeside two years ago for a full-time emergency department nursing position at Lakeside Memorial. Except for those few months at Boyer, it was the first time I’d lived outside Delaware. I didn’t know anyone. Didn’t know anything about the town—not where the grocery store was or which gas station had the lowest prices or if the local pizza parlor had thin crust or regular.

My first day at the hospital wasn’t easy. Everything seemed too bright, too cold—different and uncomfortable.

And ED nurses aren’t exactly known for being a sunshiny welcoming group.

I mean, they get there eventually—the friendships, the camaraderie—and when they do, there’s no one else on earth you’d want having your back. But it takes time. Because you need to show that you have what it takes to do the job, that you can be depended on. And the truth is, most of the time nurses are just too damn busy taking care of our patients to put in the extra effort to be nice.

By the end of my first shift, a bitchy doubting voice in my head was telling me I’d made a terrible mistake. That I should scurry back to my hometown like a mouse to its hole. Because that was the safe option, the easy option.

And I almost believed her . . . until I turned around.

And ran smack into a wide, firm chest that would rival Superman’s. Every version of him.

I bounced back and would’ve fallen on my ass—but he caught me. Gripping my arms with big, strong hands in a hold that was firm but perfectly gentle at the same time.

He looked down at me with velvety dark-brown eyes and asked if I was okay.

And then Connor Daniels smiled at me.

He has an amazing smile. Warm and easygoing, sure and steady—just the right amount of cocky—and more sexy than should be allowed.

His smile is like sunlight—it makes you feel better, lighter, just because it’s aimed at you. The kind of smile that lets you believe everything is okay, or it will be, because he can make it that way.

And it’s like I imprinted on him or something.

Because ever since that moment, Lakeside has felt like home.

And I’ve been hopelessly crushing on Connor Daniels—moronically so.

“Connor Daniel-itis?” I ask Presley. “Did you just make that one up all by yourself?”

She sticks her tongue out. “I am nothing if not creative. Have you told him you want in his scrubs yet?’

“No.”

“Have you told him that you like him?” Aubrey asks. “That you find him attractive? Asked him out for coffee after work like a grown-up?”

My throat tightens at the thought.

“Of course not! What if he said yes? I’d probably end up spilling hot coffee on his crotch and then he’d need skin grafts. I turn into a total klutz around him—a danger to myself and others.”

It’s humiliating. Normally I’m quite graceful—or at least functionally coordinated. But the second Connor is in my orbit outside of a work-related interaction, my limbs and brain go haywire . . . everything short-circuits.