“This wasn’t in the forecast,” he said.
The sky answered with a low roll that traveled across the park, scattering birds from the trees. Wind moved through the branches overhead, leaves whispering their warning.
We moved at once, the practiced efficiency of people who worked under pressure. Containers snapped shut. The cooler closed. The blanket folded in a hurry that made it lopsided. By the time we stood, rain had escalated from suggestion to commitment.
“Truck’s this way,” he said, already jogging.
We ran, shoes slipping on damp grass, laughter breaking free despite ourselves. The path offered no mercy, puddles forming faster than we could dodge them. By the time we reached his truck, both of us were soaked, hair plastered, scrubs darkened in places that left little to the imagination.
He fumbled with the keys, cursed out loud, then finally got the door open. We tumbled inside, breathless, rain drumming against the roof with enough force to drown out the rest of the park.
He turned toward me, hands braced on the steering wheel, then didn’t hesitate. His mouth found mine again, the kiss deeper this time, urgency fueled by the absurdity of it all. I tasted lemon and rain and the faint salt of sweat, my fingers curling into his damp shirt before I remembered where we were.
We pulled apart, laughing again, the moment settling into something warm and unassuming.
“Back to reality,” he said, starting the engine.
The hospital made sure of that within minutes of our return. We went our separate ways, responding to a never-ending list of calls. The rest of my shift dragged, each hour heavier than the last. The sweetness of the afternoon dulled into something lukewarm, the memory of his refusal looping when my hands were busy and my mind was free to wander.
Rosemary caught me charting with more force than necessary and raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—your Valentine was a bust?”
I snorted. “Is it that obvious?”
“You were crawling out of your skin this morning,” she said. “I couldn’t get you to shut up about this date, the gala, any of it. But since you got back from lunch, you’ve been mute.”
“Ugh, the gala.” I sighed heavily and slumped in my chair. “I don’t know if I should go.”
She rolled her chair closer, lowering her voice. “Forget him. Do you know who’s going to be there tonight? You can’t not go.”
My interest sparked. Rose hated hockey. She barely grasped the rules, let alone the names of current players.
“What do you know about the guest list?”
“Jimmy Martinez,” she said, eyes bright. “First head coach. He never shows up anywhere. And T-Bone Benson? Heard of him?”
A delicious laugh burst out of me. “How do you—?”
“I’m not a hockey lover, but I care about my friend,” she deadpanned. “You’re never gonna stop dragging me to these games, so I figured I might as well brush up on my trivia.”
“You’re amazing,” I said, feeling the knot in my chest ease up a little. “And I had no idea Benson had confirmed, so that’s a plus. I need his autograph on my player’s card.”
“That’s the spirit.” Rosemary seemed satisfied that she’d cheered me up. “Go have fun, and wear something ridiculously hot so James can see what he missed out on.”
As I finished my rounds, the gala crept back into focus, the promise of lights and history and stories that didn’t belong to me but brushed close enough to matter. James’s absence still stung, but it no longer defined the evening ahead.
By the time my shift ended, determination had settled in. I tucked my ticket safely into my bag, changed out of my scrubs, and told myself that Valentine’s Day didn’t get to be ruined without a fight.
*
The gala didn’t feel real the moment I stepped inside. It was like a fairytale, with me as the most unlikely princess of all time.
Light spilled across the marble floor in warm bands, catching on crystal and polished metal, turning the whole space into something that shimmered without trying too hard. The venue rose up instead of out, tall ceilings ribbed with dark beams, banners from past seasons suspended overhead. Each one carried a year, a logo, a memory I’d watched from the wrong side of the glass more times than I could count.
I adjusted the strap of my clutch and took another step, aware of eyes tracking me in a way that had nothing to do with recognition and everything to do with timing, royal blue silk, and confidence I’d been trying on since leaving my apartment. I’d almost talked myself out of it, the dress, almost gone practical instead. Something less flashy. Standing there, I was glad Rosemary had talked me out of it.
“Nicole.”
Landon’s voice cut through the ambient chatter, pitched just loud enough to reach me without carrying. He stood near one of the cocktail tables, suit jacket open, tie already loosened as if he’d never fully committed to wearing it in the first place. His attention hit me in a way that felt unguarded before he caught himself.
