Aubrey calls back, “That’s what I said! See,” she tells me, “even Knox nixed the nut story, and that man isn’t shy about anything.”
“He asked me about interesting cases!” I defend myself. “And Connor said he’d never—”
“And there it is.” Presley points at the screen. “There’s your real problem. Connor Daniel-itis strikes again. You’ve had it for months. Years.”
I moved to Lakeside two years ago for a full-time emergency department nursing position at Lakeside Memorial. Except for those few months at Boyer, it was the first time I’d lived outside Delaware. I didn’t know anyone. Didn’t know anything about the town—not where the grocery store was or which gas station had the lowest prices or if the local pizza parlor had thin crust or regular.
My first day at the hospital wasn’t easy. Everything seemed too bright, too cold—different and uncomfortable.
And ED nurses aren’t exactly known for being a sunshiny welcoming group.
I mean, they get there eventually—the friendships, the camaraderie—and when they do, there’s no one else on earth you’d want having your back. But it takes time. Because you need to show that you have what it takes to do the job, that you can be depended on. And the truth is, most of the time nurses are just too damn busy taking care of our patients to put in the extra effort to be nice.
By the end of my first shift, a bitchy doubting voice in my head was telling me I’d made a terrible mistake. That I should scurry back to my hometown like a mouse to its hole. Because that was the safe option, the easy option.
And I almost believed her . . . until I turned around.
And ran smack into a wide, firm chest that would rival Superman’s. Every version of him.
I bounced back and would’ve fallen on my ass—but he caught me. Gripping my arms with big, strong hands in a hold that was firm but perfectly gentle at the same time.
He looked down at me with velvety dark-brown eyes and asked if I was okay.
And then Connor Daniels smiled at me.
He has an amazing smile. Warm and easygoing, sure and steady—just the right amount of cocky—and more sexy than should be allowed.
His smile is like sunlight—it makes you feel better, lighter, just because it’s aimed at you. The kind of smile that lets you believe everything is okay, or it will be, because he can make it that way.
And it’s like I imprinted on him or something.
Because ever since that moment, Lakeside has felt like home.
And I’ve been hopelessly crushing on Connor Daniels—moronically so.
“Connor Daniel-itis?” I ask Presley. “Did you just make that one up all by yourself?”
She sticks her tongue out. “I am nothing if not creative. Have you told him you want in his scrubs yet?’
“No.”
“Have you told him that you like him?” Aubrey asks. “That you find him attractive? Asked him out for coffee after work like a grown-up?”
My throat tightens at the thought.
“Of course not! What if he said yes? I’d probably end up spilling hot coffee on his crotch and then he’d need skin grafts. I turn into a total klutz around him—a danger to myself and others.”
It’s humiliating. Normally I’m quite graceful—or at least functionally coordinated. But the second Connor is in my orbit outside of a work-related interaction, my limbs and brain go haywire . . . everything short-circuits.
Case in point:
“Speaking of Connor, I ran into him and his brothers in the ShopRite parking lot today.”
“Really?” Presley asks, her eyes wide and intrigued.
“Really. He said hello in that deep, perfect voice and I . . . proceeded to crash my cart, fall on my face, and scatter my groceries all over the parking lot like confetti at a ticker-tape parade.”
“Oh no.” Aubrey flinches.
“Oh yes.” I nod. “They helped me pick everything up, which was nice. Connor touched my tampons—grabbed the box out from under old Mrs. Jenkinsons’s car and handed it to me.”
Presley presses her fingers to her forehead. “Yikes.”
I don’t tell them the box in question is currently sitting on a shelf in my bedroom. Or that I’m going to save it the way some people save concert tickets or corsages . . . because even among friends, that detail is one crazy-bridge too far.
“I guess a small part of me is hoping that now that he knows I menstruate, he might actually realize I’m alive. That the janitorial staff doesn’t plug me in at night to charge my battery in a storage closet in the hospital basement.”
Despite Connor’s friendliness today, he’s never shown any actual interest in me as a person. A female. A young, healthy, hot-blooded woman who would jump on him like a pogo stick.
To him, I’m a nurse, a coworker, an asset that’s effective at my job who helps him do his job.
Like . . . the ultrasound machine.
I take another drink—two big gulps, right down the hatch.
“And on top of that, your blind date was a bust.” Aubrey says gently. “No wonder you’re happy to just veg out with us and a glass of wine.”
I lift the long-stemmed glass and gaze at the sunny-colored liquid.
“You’ll never let me down, will you?”
“Yeah, that’s healthy,” Presley remarks.
Then her voice brightens. “You should write a poem about it. Were you going to write a poem about it?”
Presley is head of publishing at LWW—literature in any form is never far from her mind.
And I write poetry. Not good poetry or the kind that should ever be seen by human eyeballs. It’s just for my own enjoyment and sanity, and the amusement of my closest friends.
“About the date with Evan? Probably.”
“Oooh—write it now.” Aubrey claps her hands. “I want to hear it, and you’re fun when you freestyle.”
Why not? I clear my throat. “Okay . . . here goes:
There once was a boy named Evan
Who learned a valuable lesson.
If you have a weak stomach few things are worse
Than going to dinner with an ED nurse
And asking about the cases she’s assisted in
The ED nurse learned something too
When hoping for a night of romance and woo
Don’t go out with a boy no matter how tall
’Cause it takes a real man to hear the words twisted balls
And still want the date to continue
Now poor Evan’s alone
And the nurse is at home
Drinking her wine
With her friends on FaceTime
And writing this terrible poem.”
I take a bow in my chair. “I’m going to call that one ‘The Story of My Life.’”
Aubrey and Presley laugh as they applaud, making me feel giggly and good as I refill my glass.
Who needs men when you’ve got friends and FaceTime and copious amounts of wine?
Not this girl—no way, no how.
Although . . . penises are really nice.
Right on cue, a particular penis immediately comes to mind—on the epic day the owner of said appendage forgot to pack an extra pair of compression shorts to wear beneath his scrubs after his morning run to the hospital. How the outline of it pressed against the thin green fabric, slightly to the left, thick and long even at rest, with a heavy handsome shape.