I choke on my sandwich. “She did not.”
“Oh, she did. He promised he’ll have her approve the lyrics of his next song.”
The mental image of my eight-year-old daughter critiquing the world’s biggest rockstar makes me smile for the first time today. “Can’t wait to hear it.”
“Anyway, yes, we’re still on for this weekend. Penny can swim in Dorian’s obscenely large pool and judge his musical choices to her heart’s content.”
“You’re sure it’s not too much? I know you guys probably prefer alone time, and you’ve been traveling?—”
“Lily,” Josie interrupts. “We want her here. Dorian adores her, and I miss my favorite niece.”
“She’s youronlyniece.”
“Semantics. Plus, you need a break. When was the last thing you did just for you?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I have nothing. Going to the grocery store alone doesn’t count, does it?
“That’s what I thought,” Josie says into my silence. “I’ll pick her up Friday after school. You go home, take a bath with those fancy salt bombs I got you for Christmas that are probably still in their wrapper, and maybe consider talking to an adult who isn’t bleeding or related to you.”
“I talk to adults,” I protest weakly.
“Uh-huh. Name the last non-work, non-family conversation you had.”
“Mmm… I had a stimulating discussion about rising milk prices with the cashier at Trader Joe’s yesterday.”
“I rest my case.” Josie sighs. “Look, I gotta go. Dorian is pacing around shirtless to ‘find his creative flow,’ and while it’s definitely working for me, I need to make sure he doesn’t wander past the hotel windows again. The paparazzi are staked out by the valet stand and will never leave if they catch him half naked.”
I’ve stopped keeping track of where in the country my sister is sleeping one month into her relationship. “Go contain your rockstar. I’ll text you Friday about pick-up details.”
After lunch, the ER kicks into high gear. A minor traffic accident brings in several patients with cuts and bruises. Next is an elderly man with chest pains that turn out to be just severe heartburn, and a teenager who superglued her fingers together while making a YouTube video.
“Finnigan,” Dr. Reynolds calls as I finish entering the vitals for the superglue victim. “Room three needs sutures for an arm laceration. Nothing major, but make sure it’s cleaned properly. Looks like he came straight from a fire.”
A metallic tang pools at the back of my tongue at the word “fire,” the way it always does. Four years, and I still reach for my ring finger, ready to twist the wedding band I finally removed a few months ago.
“On it,” I say, grabbing a suture kit and heading toward room three.
I pause outside, checking the chart. Male, thirty-two, laceration to the right forearm. I push the door open and step inside, my gaze colliding with a pair of deep blue eyes set in a face that’s unfairly handsome even smudged with soot.
He’s tall, dwarfing the exam bed with broad shoulders and long limbs. His firefighter gear is slung over a nearby chair. The sleeve of his navy uniform shirt rolled high to expose the injured forearm.
My throat goes dry as memories flash like strobes. Daniel in that same uniform. Daniel coming home smelling of smoke. The way he’d kiss me before he did anything else. His helmet on top of his casket.
But this isn’t my husband. This man’s hair is lighter, his jaw more angular, and his eyes are not the rich brown of spiced rum. And yet the uniform, the smoke tang that clings to him, and the way he holds himself with that understated confidence that’s standard issue for firefighters are so familiar my heart crashes and burns.
But as I steal another glance at him, it’s not the sharp reminder of my loss that blindsides me. It’s the unexpected jolt of attraction that zips through me. It’s insignificant, like getting zapped after touching the wrong metal surface.
My body responds to him before my brain can intervene, and for a breathless moment, I’m just a woman looking at an attractive man.
Then a cold, suffocating wave of guilt crashes over me. How dare I feel attraction? How dare my body betray Daniel’s memory? The rational part of my brain knows it’s been a long time, that Daniel would want me to move on, but reason has never been a match for my grief.
I set my lips in a thin line and slam the door on whatever inappropriate physical response I’m having. I straighten my spine as I shift into the clinical, detached mode untainted by emotion that best serves my patients.
“Good afternoon.” I greet the man sterilely, setting down the suture kit. When our eyes meet again, I have my professional mask in place. “I’m practicing Nurse Finnigan and I’ll be taking care of your arm today.”
2
JOSH
