Sweet Nothing(12)

“I thought that was you,” she said, shoving the chart into a cubbyhole.

“It was the boots, right?” I asked.

She looked down, chuckling.

I scanned her face, noting the braid had fallen over her right shoulder, and the way her mascara lightly clumped around her lashes. It was morning, her makeup was still fresh, and her scrubs hadn’t met with anyone’s bodily fluids, yet. Either way, she was stunning.

The accident had given us something that only we held in common, but appreciating that felt wrong. Avery had almost been killed.

“Avery,” I said.

She looked up, and I saw something in her smile I hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t only happy to see me—she’d been looking forward to it.

“Have lunch with me,” I blurted out.

After a half-second of surprise, Avery scanned my face, looking for something. She didn’t trust me, and who could blame her?

She twisted her wrist to look at her watch, and then pushed away from the counter in front of her. “Nope.”

“Nope?”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the waiting room and then leaned in, looking straight at me—no running her fingers nervously through her hair, no shifting her weigh from one leg to the other, no looking up at me from under her lashes. She wasn’t intimidated by anything, and I had to know why.

“It’s Jacobs.”

I grinned. “So, does that mean you’re going to call me Avery? Because that’s just weird.”

She blinked and then stumbled over her next words. “Fine. First names. But I’m still not going out with you. At least, not for lunch.”

“Not for lunch … then dinner?”

Someone called her last name, and then Avery went into action. “If you’ll excuse me …” Avery slid by, leaving me standing alone at the nurses’ station.

“Ouch,” Ashton said, resting her full cheek on the heel of her hand.

Carissa Ashton was a charge nurse in the ER, and one of my easier conquests when I had first moved to Philadelphia. Ashton couldn’t let our one evening together go, and she seemed to be fully enjoying the sight of me getting shot down by Jacobs.

My nostrils flared, and I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

“Doesn’t look like you’re taking that one home tonight. Did you say you were heading to lunch? What about brunch? I get off in fifteen minutes.”

“I can’t, Ashton. Go f—have a pleasant rest of the day.”

She frowned but said nothing else as I made my way back out to the parking lot.

I drove home half confused, half pissed. I’d never had to work this hard for any girl, and it was even more maddening because I could tell Avery wasn’t totally opposed. She was waiting for something. A gesture, maybe? Or was she still wrapped up in Doc Rose? Avery wasn’t the type to care about the white coat or the title. Maybe the stability, the assumed dependability. He at least appeared to have his shit together. He’d settled down, and Quinn had mentioned the doc had a house in Alapocas. I could never give Avery that, but I was one ring-less finger better than Doc Rose.

I jogged up the stairs of my building and turned the key. Stale beer and bad breath infiltrated my senses, and I frowned at the sight of Quinn, who was still sleeping off his hangover on my couch. I knew he was partially to blame. The little stunt he’d pulled at the bar had less than impressed Avery, and it was hard to look like I was winning at life while hanging out with sloppy people.

Quinn was a douche, sure, but he was a loyal douche. I hadn’t met any friends like him since I’d moved to Philadelphia. He knew my shit and wanted to be my friend anyway.

Grabbing his ankle, I pulled him until his body rolled to the floor with a thud.

“Fuck! What was that for?” he asked with his right eye barely opened to stare up at me.

“Get up. Party’s over.”

With a groan, he pushed to his hands and knees before standing on unsteady feet. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”

“That’s funny. You know who has been hit by a car?” Shoving my finger into my own chest, I winced at how even such a small movement caused such unbelievable pain. I wasn’t a small guy, spending most of my spare time in the gym. I’d learned in seventh grade after an after-school brawl that weight training was a healthier way to vent my frustration than picking fights and ending up in juvie. “This guy. I still managed not to drink myself into a stupor, humiliate myself, and sleep away an entire day.”

“Maybe you’re just not applying yourself.” After shooting me a crooked grin, Quinn padded his way to my kitchen and opened the fridge. “You really need to get groceries, man. This is no way to treat company.”

“You’re not company, and if I lived in my mom’s basement, I would have my shelves stocked, too.”

“I live in her apartment building, not her basement. Totally different.”

“Does she wash your underwear?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s go down to Tootie’s and grab some eggs after I change my clothes.”

“You buying?”

My teeth clenched, and I threw my coffee-stained shirt in the dirty laundry hamper. “Just get up.”

“All right, all right. Jesus, you’re cranky today,” Quinn said, pulling on his jeans.