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Mygrumpy veteran?
I need to nip those possessive thoughts in the bud. But there’s no denying–the man intrigues me. And then there’s the fire that kindled low in my belly just from having his hands on me.
Fletcher looks at me long and hard before his eyes drop to my hip. “Whenever you’re ready to share your story, I’ll be here to listen.”
I bite my lip and shift uncomfortably on my feet. Grabbing my rucksack, I throw it over my shoulder. “I should get going. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Without waiting for a reply, I hurry from the ambulance bay, feeling Fletcher’s eyes on me the whole way.
ChapterFive
Grace
I seethe best and worst of humanity over the next few weeks. We always begin our shifts at the ambulance station, but rarely return there until our shift ends, responding in the ambulance from one call to the next.
Since our talk following our first shift, things have been much better between Fletcher and me. His whole demeanour changed after he opened up a little and showed me his prosthesis, and he’s much more relaxed with me.
I note how respected he is by the rest of the crew. I’d heard the rumours about Fletcher Hardy’s severe manner before I came to Station 26, but maybe I was as guilty of judging him sight unseen as he was of judging me.
I also notice how certain patients seem to know him because they've called 999 several times due to complicated medical histories. He never makes them feel like they’re a burden or that they’ve wasted our time. He simply reassures them we’re here for their medical emergencies, no matter how small.
Then there are the patients who call 999 because they’ve locked themselves out of the house, have a paper cut, or have eaten a mouldy tomato. Or the woman who calls threatening to kill herself if we don’t help her find the missing remote control for her TV. We’re required to attend because she’s a potential threat to herself, but it’s frustrating when your next patient is an elderly man who’s been on the floor for hours following a fall, knowing you could’ve been there sooner.
One of our calls is to a woman who thinks she’s going into labour, but it turns out to be Braxton Hicks. I find myself watching Fletcher as he listens to the patient and describes what she’s experiencing, taking time to allay her fears and answer all her questions.
As the weeks pass, he becomes more relaxed in my presence, and I get a peek at the man he doesn’t openly share with others. He’s like an onion with layers of complexity. I see the different facets that make up the man with each layer. He wears his protective skin like a shield, but his goodness and desire to help others shine through. It’s ironic, considering he doesn’t like accepting help himself. It strikes me that we’re not so very different, after all.
I follow his lead and absorb everything he teaches me. I see how much care and attention he gives to others, and his calm confidence during emergency call-outs keeps me calm and focused too.
We support each other as we provide the medical care for every individual, and it doesn’t take long to figure out that Fletcher’s gruff persona hides a huge heart. I’m convinced that underneath his growly exterior, there’s a wounded heart he’s desperately trying to protect–something I would never have guessed the first time we met.
Though it wasn’t evident during that first shift, I know there are times when Fletcher is in pain. Others wouldn’t notice the tightening of his mouth or the occasional flinch of his eyelids, but after two weeks of working together for hours on end, I get to know his tells.
I can’t deny that the man intrigues me, and I want to get to know him better. So, as we move onto day shifts at the beginning of the fourth week, I take a deep breath as we run through the checklist before our shift and ask him the question that’s been burning on my tongue for a few days.
“I was wondering if, uh, you’d be willing to grab a drink with me at the end of the week? Maybe after our shift on Friday?”
Fletch’s eyebrows rise in surprise as he turns from the meds cupboard to look at me. “Are you asking me out?” he asks with a frown.
I laugh to hide my embarrassment. “No. I have a rule. No military guys.”
He frowns. “You mentioned something about ‘us military guys’ on our first shift. Why the rule?”
I shrug carelessly. “Let’s just say that experience has taught me to be wary.”
“I thought we moved past this,” he says, shaking his head as he places the meds in the cupboard.
“Past what?”
“Making assumptions. You’re presuming I’m like those other military guys you dated.”
“I never said I dated one,” I correct him quickly. “I just said I had a rule.”
“How can you have a rule if you’ve never dated one?” he asks, clearly perplexed.
Ah, shit. I walked straight into that one.
Growing up with an abusive parent was enough to ruin my trust in the opposite sex, particularly military men. But Fletcher is right. Iamjudging him on the back of my father’s shitty example.
