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The crowd clapped and whistled, and within minutes the surgery team wheeled her away. The man stood in the middle of the vacated room, palm cupping the back of his neck, a mixture of love and worry on his face. He stumbled backward and fell into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Ted, the nurse covering that side and likely the one taking care of both the man and his new fiancée, approached him.
“Wow,” Claire breathed, following Ruthie back to the nursing station as everyone dispersed. “What a story that’s gonna be, huh?”
“Right? Proposal in the ER after a near-death experience.”
“Was the accident that bad?”
“I don’t think so. But it sounds more dramatic that way.”
“True.” Claire sat beside Ruthie. “I was inserting a catheter when I heard her shriek.”
Ruthie winced.
“Don’t worry.” Claire held up her hands, fingers splayed. “Steady as a rock.”
“Believe me, I know. If I ever need stitches I won’t let anyone else near me with a needle.”
“I’m not allowed to do that, yet.” Wouldn’t stop her, of course, but technically it wasn’t in the scope of practice for a nurse to suture. She’d learned the skill during her recent training to become a nurse practitioner—and had even passed the licensing exam, hell to the yes—but had to wait on the slow-as-molasses hospital credentialing office to finish up all the paperwork before making the transition.
“It would be under the table, obviously. Or, I could just hold off on obtaining open wounds until you’re official. How much longer?”
“Are you asking because you want me on speed dial for cleaning you up or because you’ll need to fill my nursing shifts?”
“Both.”
“The NP from ortho said it took two months to get his through.” Claire had only found out she’d passed her exam last week, so it might be a while.
“I won’t hold my breath, then.”
One of the medical assistants called for Ruthie, and she leaped to her feet.
Claire roused the computer screen and while she waited for the program to load, sneaked a glance behind her at the man who had just proposed. Still in the chair, his expression remained a little dazed, but something in his eyes seemed...exhilarated. Happy, even—an emotion not so common in the emergency room.
She could only assume it was a rash, spur-of-the-moment decision, but even in the few moments she’d watched, the connection between the two had been palpable. Thick with emotion and a slight sense of urgency.
Turning back to the screen, she frowned. When had she ever felt such desperation? She’d never even told a man she loved him, let alone felt that burn in her heart that if she didn’t do it right that second—make sure he knew just how lost she was over him—that she’d break through any barrier to get it done.
And at thirty-one and single as the day she was born, she was starting to lose hope she ever would.
“I need a drink.”
Claire made the announcement the second she walked into the condo she shared with two roommates. Her standard shift was 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m., and by the time she’d passed off to the incoming nurse and driven home, daylight was fading. Her stomach growled, making a fair argument that dinner was more important than alcohol.
Noted and ignored.
Graham regarded her over the back of the couch with a raised eyebrow. He wore his standard lounging uniform of gray joggers and a T-shirt, legs extending the length of the couch and one tanned, muscled arm draped along the back. His expression was curious but not surprised. Ever since she’d moved from ICU to the ER, she’d come home frazzled and in search of alcohol on a semiregular basis. Taking classes for the NP program on the side hadn’t helped matters, either.
Down the hall, Reagan’s head popped out of her room. “I’m in.”
Graham stood and stretched his arms above his head. “I’ll see what we’ve got while you change.”
Claire didn’t slow in the trajectory to her room, but as she went her eyes dipped briefly to the ridged abs he’d revealed. Her and Graham’s relationship was purely platonic—always had been—but she could appreciate her roommate was damn fine.
“You two are the best roommates a girl could ask for,” she called over her shoulder before kicking the door shut. She made quick work of her scrubs and slipped into yoga pants and a gray Broncos sweatshirt she’d commandeered from an old boyfriend.
In fact, she had an entire drawer full of men’s clothing she’d collected over the last decade of failed relationships. T-shirts, sweatshirts, a ball cap. All but one had broken up with her, and she’d figured they didn’t deserve their shit back.
They were just clothes, after all.
