Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(47)

“Restraints—now! And get security in here!”

The veins in Connor’s forearms stand out as he pins Jeremey’s right arm down.

Orderlies and nurses converge, strapping his struggling wrists and ankles to the gurney as he curses them out.

The second he’s secured, Connor tells his resident, “Start the gastric suction when the line’s in—I’ll be right back.” Then he’s guiding me into the exam room next door. “Let me look at that.”

He sets me on a stool and sits across from me.

“Connor—”

“Don’t talk.”

His eyes shine sharp with anger and his face is a tight mix of fury and concern as he sticks rolled gauze up both my nostrils.

Forcing me to breath out my mouth—like a caveman.

Then he presses his fingers carefully below my eyes, along the bridge of my nose, checking my teeth and jaw.

“I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Connor—”

“How’s your vision? We should do an X-ray just to be safe.”

“Connor!” I push the stool back and stand up, finally getting his attention. “Nothing is broken, I’m fine. And you can’t do what you did in there just now.”

He leans back, eyes narrowing.

“And what did I do, exactly?”

“You can’t slap every zonked-out patient in restraints to try and protect me. Or drag me out to an exam room for every bump and scrape.”

My stopped-up nose undercuts the righteousness of my speech—making my voice honky and nasally like a talking goose.

Connor stands up too—his movements harsh and uncompromising.

“I would’ve put that asshole in restraints, period.”

“I was handling it. This is a part of my job.”

“Taking an elbow to the face from an idiot frat boy is not part of any nurse’s job—not on my fucking shift. The fact that you’re my girlfriend is the reason I have to stop myself from walking back in there and beating the shit out of him while he’s in restraints. Two totally different things.”

I stare at him—mouth-breathing for two solid beats.

“I’m your girlfriend? Like . . . officially?”

I assumed we were headed in that direction but hearing him say it out loud is different. It makes me feel all lit up inside, my heart skipping and bouncing around like I’ve been transformed into a human pinball machine.

“Well . . . yeah.” His brow ruffles but he doesn’t look sorry he said it. “I mean, that’s how I think of us. If it’s okay with you.”

I smile—and I really hope there’s not blood on my teeth.

“It’s completely okay with me. It’s perfect.”

Connor’s dimple comes out to play—the corner of his mouth inching up into a smitten smirk.

“Good.”

“You know, that actually brings up something else I wanted to talk to you about.” I take the gauze out of my nose because this is not a conversation I’m having with tampons protruding from my nostrils.

“I have an IUD.”

“Niiice.” Connor exhales.

I roll my eyes.

“It didn’t feel so nice going in. Buuut, I figured we should put it to good use and . . . ”

“ . . . get some blood tests,” Connor finishes for me. “And rely on the IUD for birth control.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

No one can ever say we medical people aren’t true romantics.

“You can write up the order for the lab and Melissa can draw my blood before I head home,” I say.

“God, you’re awesome.” Connor’s eyes caress my face, softer now. “You know that, right?”

I laugh, cherishing the warmth spreading through my stomach.

“It’s always nice to hear.” I move toward the door. “Well, boyfriend—we should get back to work.”

“Vi, wait.” He wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me back. “You have dried blood on your face. Come here.”

Connor grabs a few alcohol wipes, tilts my chin up, and gently dabs at my skin.

“I am so sexy,” I tease, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know how you can resist me.”

He chuckles, tossing the balled-up wipes in the trash when he’s finished.

Then he leans in and kisses me on my rubbing-alcohol-flavored lips.

“You are. And I can’t. Not anymore.”


*

When my shift ends at 11 p.m., I grab my purse from the locker and head over to the desk to say goodbye to Connor. He’s hunched over, looking at his phone as he curses.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“No. Aaron’s MIA—he sent me a text an hour ago saying he’s arguing with his girlfriend and doesn’t know when he’ll be home, and hasn’t answered me since. Brayden and Spencer watched some movie that spooked the hell out of them and they’re sending me 911 texts that they’re pretty sure there’s a cult surrounding the house as we speak.”

I smother a laugh. Connor rubs the back of his neck and continues.

“I could ask my parents to go over but my father will insist on driving and he’s blind as a bat at night. And he’s too stubborn to wear his night glasses—if he even knows where they are. Ryan is working, Angela is probably already in bed, Timmy’s drunk at his apartment with his firefighter friends. I hate to bother Garrett because Charlotte is teething, so he and Callie aren’t sleeping as it is . . . but it looks like he’s my only option.”