Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(17)

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.

“So what’s up? Why did you guys want to meet for lunch?”

“Does something have to be up? Can’t I just want to visit my older brother?” Garret asks. “We had a few days off this week.”

“Gotta love those unused snow days,” Dean adds, his blue eyes scanning from the door of the cafeteria, across the room, then back again.

“O-kay . . .” I look back and forth between them, because something seems off.

Shady.

Before I can push the issue, Dean’s attention darts to the doorway.

“Hey, look, there’s Violet.”

I turn around in my chair. We worked on two of the car accident cases together, but this is the first time I’ve actually looked at her.

Vi stands in the doorway, her eyes drifting around the crowded room behind a pair of sexy as hell, black-rimmed librarian glasses she doesn’t often wear at work.

She’s also wearing the bunny scrubs today—dark blue and dotted with little white rabbit faces. Scrubs look good on Violet—which is a feat in and of itself—but those scrubs are something else entirely.

They remind me of pajamas.

And that makes me think about what Vi wears to bed. Lacy, sheer lingerie or barely there cotton ensembles that are as translucent as a wet T-shirt on spring break. And that makes me imagine Violet in bed, wearing nothing at all. Laid out bare, with that long dark hair spilling over the pillow and those bedroom eyes beckoning.

And that pretty picture almost always turns me on.

I haven’t had a public erection since I was a teenager, but if I let myself contemplate Vi in those Peter Cottontail scrubs long enough—that’ll do the fucking job.

“How do you know Violet?” I ask Dean, still watching as she navigates the food line.

“She’s in Lainey’s sewing circle.”

“Lainey has a sewing circle?”

I thought sewing circles were for rocking-chair-sitting, gray-haired ladies in the 1800s.

Dean lifts a shoulder. “If it involves making something awesome out of absolutely nothing, Lainey does it. It’s like witchcraft. Hot, modern-day witchcraft.”