“That’s it,” Jax says. “You’re admitted. Observation. No banisters. No coins. No objects smaller than a toaster.”
Jax marches Bromley toward the elevators. Max follows, shaking his head and pulling out his tablet—presumably to check the depreciation of the banister, or perhaps to reschedule his wedding slot.
That leaves Luke, me, and Mama Ortiz standing in the lobby.
Luke and I are sitting on the floor. We are covered in medical-grade jelly. My Tom Ford pants are ruined. Again.
Mama Ortiz stands over us. She looks at the banister. She looks at the lube on the floor. She looks at us.
She sighs. It is a heavy, dramatic sound that echoes in the cavernous space.
“You two look like glazed donuts,” she observes.
“We saved the patient, Mama,” Luke says, wiping a smear of jelly from his cheek. “And the ironwork.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She crosses her arms, tapping her foot. “You saved the patient. Good. Now save your mother’s sanity.”
She points a finger at Luke.
“The other one,” she says, gesturing toward the elevator where Max disappeared. “He is finally marrying the Cowboy. I heard about the spreadsheet. It is unromantic, but it is progress.”
I snort. “The Cowboy?”
“Dr. O’Connell,” she clarifies. “He walks like he is wearing spurs. Anyway, they are settling down.”
She leans down, getting into Luke’s personal space.
“So, Lucas. Now that you have secured the ‘Liaison’…” She eyes my ruined suit with critical approval. “…and he seems willing to ruin expensive fabrics for you, I have expectations.”
“Mama, please,” Luke groans, his ears turning pink. “Not here. Not in the lobby.”
“Where else? You never answer your phone, and you changed the locks on your apartment for some reason.” She straightens up, adjusting her scrub cap. “I am not getting any younger,mijo. I want grandbabies. Or at least a wedding where the cake doesn't taste like cardboard. I have a dress I’ve been saving since 1998. It has sequins. It needs an audience.”
She looks at me.
“You,” she says.
“Yes, Ma’am?” I sit up straighter.
“You have good genes. And good teeth. Don’t waste them. If you break his heart, I will hide your body in the MRI machine. But if you give me grandbabies? I will make youarroz con lecheevery Sunday for the rest of your life.”
“That is… a very compelling offer,” I say honestly.
“Good.” She pats Luke’s sticky cheek. “Clean this mess up. You look like a slip-and-fall lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She turns and marches toward the elevators, muttering about sequins and venues.
Luke and I are left alone in the silence of the lobby.
Luke puts his head in his hands. “I am going to die. I am actually going to die of mortification.”
“She offered mearroz con leche,” I point out, nudging his knee with mine. “That’s a binding verbal contract, Luke. Legally, I think we’re engaged now.”
Luke looks up. He starts to laugh. It’s a warm, free sound that bounces off the marble walls.
“You saved the banister,” Luke says, shaking his head.
“I saved the patient,” I correct. “The banister was a bonus. The pudding is the goal.”
