Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(6)

At work, it’s crucial to keep hair out of the way—confined by the tight elastic band of a mask or twisted into a secure bun at the top of the head. I’ve never actually seen her hair down. But I’ve thought about it, imagined it—long and loose, thick and silky—more times than I’ll ever admit.

Ryan bumps into my back. “Is this your first day walking?”

But Garrett follows my line of sight.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“Violet Robinson. One of the nurses from the hospital.”

Timmy stands beside me, looking where I’m looking.

“She’s cute.”

“Yeah,” I reply with an involuntary sigh.

Because the truth is, Violet Robinson is so much more than cute.

She’s gorgeous—in that easy, effortless way that says she’s clueless about it.

And she’s a rock-star nurse. Solid, sharp under pressure, intelligent, and indispensable. I’m pretty damn quick on my feet, but I once saw Vi fly across the room to perform the Heimlich on a choking patient before anyone else had taken a single step. And she had great technique—strong hands, firm pulls.

In my book, a woman who gives good Heimlich is every bit as sexy as one who gives good head. Possibly sexier.

Now all four of us stand there watching her, but Violet doesn’t notice. It’s like she’s lost in her own little world as she hops onto the handle of the shopping cart—bracing her midsection against the bar, feet off the ground, so she can coast playfully across the lot.

It’s a move I would probably tell my kids not to do—but with her endless toned legs stretched out long and lithe behind her, she reminds me of a ballerina.

Elegant and graceful.

I raise my arm. “Hey! Hey, Vi!”

She turns in the direction of my voice, and there’s this slow motion moment when our eyes meet. There’s a spark of warm recognition in hers, and her lips start to curve into a sweet smile.

But then they stop.

And she goes down hard.

Smacking the pavement when her shopping cart crashes into the light pole she never saw coming. The cart tips on its side, her groceries spilling and rolling across the pavement.

Maybe graceful was too strong a word.

Violet’s . . . occasionally clumsy. Occasionally a lot.

Not when she’s working, but in those in-between real-life times when she’s eating or walking . . . or breathing.

“Shit.” I jog over with my brothers right behind me.

Because like I said: gentlemen.

I offer her a hand up from her knees.

“You okay?”

When she’s on her feet, she lets go, brushing dark gravel specks off her knees and shins.

“Yeah, I’m all right.” She lifts her face to mine, her pretty cheeks flushed and pink. “Nothing broken but my dignity.”

I chuckle. Too fucking cute.

Ryan rights the shopping cart while Tim and Garrett pick up the scattered bags and groceries.

I spot a box under the green Lincoln beside us and crouch down, scooping it up and handing it to her.

“Here you go.”

It’s a box of tampons. Forty-eight count, regular and super absorbent—for those heavy days.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “Would’ve sucked to not have these when I needed them.”

“I bet.” I nod.

It’s pretty much impossible for emergency department staff to get embarrassed. About anything. We’re too desensitized to nakedness, blood, bodily fluids, colorful cursing, and the inventive ravings of both the mentally ill and derangedly intoxicated.

We’ve seen it all, heard it all . . . smelled it all.

“You working this week?” I ask casually.

“Yeah, I’m on days starting Tuesday.”

Nurses work in twelve-hour shifts, three days on, then three days off.

“I’m on Tuesday too—days.”

She nods, smiling—her big brown eyes sparkling like two dark diamonds in the sun.

At work, I rarely have the opportunity to really look at anyone. It’s too hectic, too busy. Every minute is too important. But I look at her now.

I soak up the view of her heart-shaped mouth, the soft slope of her cheeks, the delicate arch of her brows over her wide, unguarded eyes, and the long line of thick lashes that fan out over creamy skin every time she blinks.

Christ, she’s pretty.

“We’ll be working together on Tuesday, then.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “We will.”

There’s a loud pause, and without any more small talk left, I hook my thumb over my shoulder.

“Well, we should probably get going.”

“Yeah, me too.” Vi gives a little wave—managing to make the benign gesture cock-twitchingly adorable. “Bye, Connor. Bye, Connor’s brothers.”

Garrett and Ryan lift their chins while Timmy replies in his distinct pickup tone, “See ya around.”

Violet walks past us to her car and I force myself not to turn and watch her go like some kind of weirdo staring creeper.

Timmy lets out a wolf whistle when Vi’s out of earshot.

“She single?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.”

For clarification: I know so.

Among my many talents, I’m kick-ass at listening to conversations around me while appearing completely preoccupied by something else. It’s a gift. Also a handy skill when keeping tabs on what teenage kids are really up to.