My eyebrows furrow. I drop my marker back into a pocket and look over my shoulder at Erica. “A delivery?”
She smiles and holds out her hand. In it is a narrow vase of green glass filled with flowers. It’s an automatic reaction to take it from her, like it’s a medication or warmed blanket and not an unexpected piece of beauty in this place.
“There’s a note tucked in there, too, so be careful.” Erica’s voice is light. “Anyway, I’ll get that room cleaned and ready for the next person.”
She disappears deeper into the ER without another word. I press up against the room’s door, keeping out of the way of the other staff, and focus on the sudden bouquet in my hands. It’s a handful of dark pink azaleas mixed with another small white flower I don’t recognize.
How in the world did someone find azaleas at the end of July?
Like Erica promised, there’s a small white card tucked in the center of the blooms.
I pull it and flip it over. There’s no note, just a delicate scrawl that says “From Your Omega.” Tears inexplicably line my lashes, and I blink them back before anyone can realize I’m crying over a small batch of flowers. I send a quick message to Cole.
They’re beautiful. Thank you.
It’s only a few seconds before the message is marked as read and the dots show up.
Hope it was ok I sent them to the hospital instead of the house.
Better than okay.
We’re still on for chatting tonight?
Absolutely. Gotta get back.
Be safe.
I smile as I tuck my phone back into my pocket and cross the department, dropping onto one of the cushioned stools and settling in front of an open computer. I set the vase of flowers beside the monitor, careful to keep it far enough away that someone won’t knock it over on accident. Warmth fills me, turning over my stomach, as I stare at the flowers.
He sent meflowers. I mean, I knew he’d been listening when I talked about losing my parents. But I hadn’t expected him to send me my favorite flowers while working, especially since it’s only been a couple days since we were in Seattle.
With a dreamy sigh, I turn to focus on my work. It takes two swipes of my badge to unlock the computer. By the time I havethe patient’s chart pulled up, Riley’s dropped onto a stool next to me, his attention entirely on me.
“How was whale watching?” he asks slyly.
I can’t help but frown as I glance away from the chart. “How do you know what we did?”
Without missing a beat, he pulls his phone from one of the cargo pockets of his scrubs and pulls up an image. It’s a screenshot of another one of those gossip articles like Charlotte and I had seen Sunday before flying back from Seattle. This time, though, the article’s dominant photo is a grainy, pixelated image of Cole and me leaning against the railing of the yacht he’d borrowed. Our arms are touching, our fingers are laced together, and our faces are turned toward each other. Cole’s expression is obscured—blown out of detail from the crappy quality of the photo—but mine is nearly crystal clear.
I hadn’t realized anyone was paying attention to us so far out from the marina. Ohcrap. Does that mean there are shitty photos of him and me making out, too? Or of him going back to the rental with us?
My skin tightens from the unwanted attention.
I force a swallow and turn back to the computer, entering in the final notes for the compound fracture I just helped admit to orthopedic surgery.
“Oh,” I manage to say with a neutral tone. “Yeah, it was fun.”
“So when do I get to meet him?”
A sudden surge of possessive greed rushes through me. I barely manage to swallow the snarl that tries to rise with it. I close out of the file and then pull up the triage list, seeing who is next to be brought back for treatment.
“Not sure yet,” I hedge. “He’s not moving out here until Friday, and then he’ll need time to settle in after that.”
“Fair enough,” he says.
He starts to say something else, but the EMS radio cuts him off. He grabs the microphone and responds to the paramedic. After another moment, Holden’s steady, warm voice cuts across the open air.
“We’re about ten minutes out with a 70-year-old male experiencing cardiac arrest.”
