“They’ll catch the vision eventually,” she promises, squeezing my hand. “And even if they don’t, you’ve got us.”
I squeeze her hand just as the energy of the room shifts. The low-level chatter spikes into a series of hushed swoons as the crowd parts. Dr. Diego Contreras—or Dr. McNaughty to the tabloids—strolls in. Even in his white coat, he looks like he’s stepped off a runway, his long locs tied back in a neat ponytail and his almond-brown skin flawless enough to make God’s original creation look like a rough draft.
“I still can’t believe you never hit that,” Tatum whispers, her eyes glued to the pediatric cardiologist as he greets a few residents with that devastating, dimpled grin.
“He’s a mentor and a friend,” I hiss back. “And happily married.”
“He wasn't always married,” she counters.
She isn’t wrong. There was amoment, a few years ago, at a medical conference. A lingering glance after a night that stretched too long. But we stopped ourselves before the spark could catch. I’ve seen too many “small moments” erupt into life-altering craters in other people's lives, and I wasn't willing to be one of them. Now, a year into his marriage to his lovely wife, Jordan, Diego is the picture of a reformed man—his focus split entirely between her and the mission of the Contreras Foundation.
“I hear someone is finally taking the plunge,” Diego says, his rich voice cutting through my thoughts as he reaches us.
“Finally?” I question, tilting my head.
“I always knew you’d do something big, Aspen. You’ve got too much heart for these four walls.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Says the man who runs a pro-bono foundation giving heart transplants to kids who can’t afford them.”
He shrugs, his expression turning thoughtful. “Takes good people to know them. You’re one of the good ones.”
“Thank you, sincerely. This place would have been much harder to navigate without people like you in my corner.”
He stays for a few more minutes, offering a genuine promise that I can call him for anything. He’s always been the one people call on, so I know he means it. But as he walks away, a flicker of panic tightens my chest. What I need isn’t just a favor. It’s clients. My business plan is solid, but my roster is thin. If I don’t find a solution fast, my “new beginning” won't even last through next month's rent.
A chorus of “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” erupts as the staff presents me with the last, lonely slice of farewell cake. I whisper a bittersweet goodbye to the place that has raised me.
And also the place I intend to scout for my next mobile client before I hit the exit.
Chapter Eleven
Biscotti, Business + a Tomahawk Missile
Aspen
“No! He is ugly! And sweaty! And just overall icky! I will not continue with this show if you make me date or kiss or…or…just ew!”
There’s a huge grin on my face as I pull supplies from my medical bag. It’s my first official day as my own boss. No hospital board breathing down my neck, no shift supervisors to check in with, or people to manage. It’s just me, my stethoscope, and my newest client, Ms. Lilly Rose. Since I’m not on anyone’s time but my own, we allow ourselves a few minutes to remain fully engrossed in our shared guilty pleasure—reality TV.
Ms. Lilly Rose lets out a dramatic gasp, her eyes welling with tears as we watch the recap of the latest episode ofSightUnseen.Apparently, after falling head-over-heels for James in the pods, Hilary is now having visceral second thoughts about the man she once called her king. The transition from emotional connection to physical reality has been, to put it mildly, a train wreck.
“It’s not kind to call someone ugly,” we hear one of the producers say from behind the camera on the screen.
“It’s also notkindto tell someone you look like Tom Hardy! That man looks like he’s been hit by a tomahawk missile!”
Ms. Lilly snorts. “I hate to say it, but that man is ugly.”
We start laughing again.
Ms. Lilly is seventy-five years old with a heart of gold and a mild case of hypertension that seems to spike only when her favorite contestants make questionable choices. Being here in her sunroom on Billionaire’s Row feels worlds away from the frantic pace of Centennial Memorial. It’s warm and cozy in a way I can’t quite explain, but this is exactly why I started this mobile nursing business. For the personal touch, the real connection, and, apparently, a front-row seat to the best reality TV commentary in the city.
I sober my thoughts and return to work mode, determined to maintain my professionalism.
“Let’s get started with your initial intake, shall we?” I ask. She picks up the remote and turns the volume down on the television, the dramatic soundtrack fading into the background.
“Guess we’re getting down to business now,” she says with a playful sigh.
“Well, you don’t pay me to gab, Ms. Lilly.”
