First day at a new station, and I’ve already made a fool of myself in front of my squad mates.
Lieutenant Josh Collins, reporting for duty with confidence and zero intentions of throwing his body in front of falling objects like an unthinking human shield.
But as I spotted the woman, frozen in place as a wooden beam tore loose from the ceiling, I registered the path. It was heading straight for her face, and none of my guys were close enough.
So I did what any idiot with a hero complex would do: I lunged forward, shoving her aside with my body while raising my arm to deflect the beam. It worked, technically. I saved the woman. But a rusty nail sliced me open and made me look like the greenest rookie in the department. At least I didn’t break a bone. Still, I should’ve used literally anything but my arm.
Now I’m parked in an ER, mentally drafting a stack of “Sorry, I’m an Idiot” cards to send to my former captain who vouched for me.
The door swings open, and I straighten. I expect a doctor, but a nurse comes in. She’s all efficiency in blue scrubs and honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her gaze stays locked on the chart as she enters, and that focused intensity makes my pulse kick up a notch for no reason.
She closes the door and looks up. Our gazes meet, and the impact hits me harder than that beam did. I register too much too fast about her beautiful eyes. The color, hazel, leaning more on green than brown. The shape, round, upturned. And her long lashes—natural, no makeup needed. The unexpected awareness short-circuits whatever self-pep-talk I was in the middle of.
I’m about to smile when she flinches. A shadow flickers across her face, her expression scrunching into a grimace of pain before her features settle into professional neutrality.
The change is so subtle I might have imagined it, but no. Something about me triggered a reaction in her, but what?
“Good afternoon,” she says coolly as she sets down a suture kit. “I’m practicing Nurse Finnigan and I’ll be taking care of your arm today.”
“Hi, I’m Josh.”
I flash the smile I’ve used to wiggle out of trouble since middle school. But Nurse Finnigan nods imperviously and reaches for my arm, granting me maybe a tenth of the attention she gave my chart.
“Don’t I get a name?” I prod.
She scowls but still looks cute as she removes the temporary bandages and starts cleaning around the edges of the gash. “You get stitches and to keep your arm.”
I want to laugh, but her deadpan delivery makes me worry she might actually leave me one-armed if I do. “Not even a golden star? I dove in front of a falling beam to save a life. Pretty heroic, right?”
This gets me a brief, cutting glance. “Or pretty stupid. Did you forget your halligan? Or do they not cover ‘risk-benefit analysis’ in rookie orientation?”
I blink, surprised. Most civilians don’t know the technical names of our tools. “I’m not a rookie, I’m the new squad lieutenant at Station 27.”
At the words “lieutenant and station 27,” her hands freeze, and that shadow crosses her face again—deeper this time, unmistakable.
She recovers quickly, resuming her work without comment, but the air in the room has thickened. I want to know why almost as much as I want her to look at me again with anything other than professional disinterest.
I’m suddenly determined to find out as much as I can about her. “Family in the service?”
“I’m going to clean this with antiseptic now,” she replies, ignoring my question. “It’ll sting.”
“Don’t sound so cheerful about it.”
A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk touches the corner of her mouth before she proceeds.
She’s not kidding. The disinfectant burns, and I hiss through my teeth.
Nurse Finnigan grabs a syringe. “I’ll give you a local anesthetic before the stitches.”
I barely feel the pinch and study her while she prepares the suture kit. I take in the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates. The way she tucks an escaped wisp of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist to maintain sterility. And how she snaps each instrument on her tray: annoyed, as if my scrutiny is rattling her and her patience for me fraying fast.
“Is this the part where you hold my hand and tell me I’ll be okay?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and I catch a flash of genuine amusement before she stamps it out. “No, this is the part where I stick a needle in you and hope you don’t cry.”
I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “I haven’t cried since I mistook wasabi for guacamole at a party.”
Her lips twitch again.
