Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(21)

“And it’s just a wedding. We might actually have fun together, did you ever think of that? And . . . and I happen to be a fantastic dancer.”

Connor watches me for a moment, not saying anything. And then he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck—that gentle, teasing tone slipping back into his words.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Just keep any sharp objects or scalding liquid ten feet away from me at all times and we should be fine.”

The left corner of his mouth lifts. And somehow it’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.

“Was already planning on it.”

“Okay, then.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

His voice goes fainter—a feather-brush whisper I’ll hear in my dreams tonight.

“Good.”

Then he gives me his hand and helps me down from the gurney.

“I want you to head home now. Take the rest of the day off.”

My face is too sore to roll my eyes, so I infuse my voice with gooey eye-rolling goodness.

“Connor, I’m fine.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Violet. You’ve got four stitches in your head.”

“And no concussion,” I counter.

“But I bet it hurts like a bitch.”

I open my mouth to argue—and then close it. Because it does hurt like a bitch. And because it feels good . . . to have someone looking out for me. Concerned about me.

To have him concerned about me.

I’ve never had that before.

“Don’t make me bring Stella into this,” Connor warns lightly. “She scares me.”

Stella Brine is the head nurse of the Emergency Department. She’s a no-bullshit, effective, steel spine of a woman—like a nonpsychotic, less brutal version of Aunt Lydia from The Handmaid’s Tale. Navy SEAL drill instructors would acquiesce to her.

“Stella scares all of us. I think it’s in her job description.”

“Right.” He grins. “And you know the drill with the stitches—the wound will heal fully in seven to ten days, the stiches will fall out on their own. Until then . . . it’s too bad it’s not closer to Halloween—you’d make an awesome Frankenstein.”

“Well, it’s only May—there’s plenty of time. God only knows what the fall will bring.”

He laughs again—a deep, lovely rumble from his chest. A chest I might feel under my cheek next weekend if we dance.

On. Our. DATE.

“Take it easy today, okay?”

“Yeah, I will. I’ll probably just take a nap. Or maybe a bath.”

He glances toward the wall, his eyes sort of glazing over a little.

“Connor?”

He lifts his head, shaking it. “Sorry. I got distracted thinking about . . . something.” He clears his throat. “Make sure to keep those stitches dry when you’re in your . . . bubble bath.”

I never mentioned bubbles—but now that he’s mentioned it, the thought is enticing. A long, warm, luxurious soak in some creamy suds with my favorite pear-scented candles lit all around me and Dionne Warwick singing on my record player is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Literally.

Connor glances at a message on his phone and gestures toward the door. “I’ve gotta get out on the floor.”

“Okay, I’m heading home now. Bye, Connor.”

Before he heads for the door, he moves to me—close and sudden and so near I can feel the heat radiating off him. Then he offers me his phone.

“Do you want to give me your number now?” A new contact page is pulled up with my name on it. “So I can text you about the wedding stuff?”

“Yes! Right, of course.”

I add my number, save that bad boy, and hand the phone back. Connor taps the screen for a moment.

“I just sent you a text, so you have my number too. If you need it.”

And then he puts his hand on my right shoulder, giving it a gentle, quick squeeze.

“Bye, Violet. Take care.”

He turns around and walks out so quickly that by the time I answer, the door is already swinging closed behind him.

“I will,” I say to an empty room.

It’s not a big deal. Connor is a friendly guy, a confident guy. Easily affectionate—I’ve seen him hug some of the other nurses—on birthdays or when a family member passes or new babies arrive.

It probably doesn’t mean anything and that’s totally okay.

Still . . . I press my hand to my shoulder, covering the spot Connor touched that’s still warm and tingling. And that’s when I decide that cracking my head open like a melon and looking like a moron doing it?

Totally worth it.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Connor


You’d make an awesome Frankenstein???

It’s a weird feeling walking around wanting to punch yourself in the face.

But that’s exactly how I’ve felt all week—every time I think about the stellar compliment I gave Violet the last time I saw her.

Frankenstein . . .

Dumbass.

Vi and I aren’t on the same schedule at work for the next few days, so I kept checking my phone, figuring once the full realization of my idiocy sunk in, she’d send a polite but uncomfortable text message bailing on the wedding.