Page 3 of Never Till Now

“Will you be back?” She heads toward the lobby, and I follow behind like a damn puppy.

“If I’m hired.”

“What’s your name?”

“There’s no point in remembering it.” Do dream girls exist and have I just met mine?

“Well, then. Thank you again for my thumb, Blondie.”

Her eyes soften as she nods. I feel like a dick to keep pursuing this woman who clearly isn’t throwing me a goddamn bone. I watch her walk to the elevator, but I am well aware that her hips are purposefully swaying the way Miranda’s were. Her arm lifts as she runs a hand through her hair and stops midscalp to fluff her curls.

I know that is intentional.

“Make sure you hold on to that innocence.” I respect she turned me down, but I’m confused with her hot and cold angle.

She jolts with an abrupt stop from my words, and her head slowly turns back to me with her chin resting on her shoulder. A twisted sultry smirk plays on her lips as her narrow eyes hold humor. My dick responds in ways it shouldn’t as I try to figure out what the fuck this means. Her emeralds dip to my thumb for a moment, then connect back to mine. Blondie’s tongue darts out over her bottom lip tracing the edge before her teeth clench on to it. Is she debating us tonight? The lust in her eyes vanishes with one last look at my hand.

“Good night, Charmer.” With that, she steps into the elevator, and my contracted lungs can’t find the power to seize oxygen.

Am I embarrassed to know I was rejected because my sore thumb could maybe interfere with my bedroom skills? Slightly, yes. Honestly, Blondie is probably right, considering she’s the reason I’m not at the hospital right now. I walk back into the lounge bar, straight toward Max, who already knows my question.

“The only information I gathered is that her ID is from California and she’s twenty-four, dude.”

My thumb continues to pulse as I piece together how I have gone thirty years without meeting a woman who won’t give me her name.

I’ve gone all these years without caring to know a woman’s name.

Until now.

Chapter 2

Lauren

Two months later

“I’m proud of you.” Lloyd, my final foster person, wraps me in a brief hug. “Marsha would be too.”

Marsha, his wife, died my second year in their care. Cancer sucks, but at least we had time to prepare for it. After she passed, Lloyd and I kept to ourselves. What else would a twelve-year-old girl and widowed old man talk about anyway? We held a basic routine where most of our communication was done over dinner. He wasn’t a cook. My youth and adolescence consisted of packaged and frozen foods. But I was fed and thankful to not be transported to another family. Or add more demons to my hellish past. The real advantage of being placed with Lloyd was how he allowed me to stay with him through university.

“I’ll give you a call when I arrive.” I hit the interstate anticipating the eight-hour drive from a small town outside of San Diego to San Francisco.

My best and only friend, Rachel, had me questioning why I would give up the sunny south for misty skies and concrete hills. It’s where I was born. I never left the hospital with my womb supplier. I’ve known nothing other than life in the foster system.

I feel drawn to find what was so appealing about this city to my mother, aside from the drugs of course. I pull into a hotel six hours later, not wanting to navigate downtown San Francisco on a Friday night.

The lobby is dim as jazz pours through the lounge. It’s not as classy as the one a few blocks from the new condo I am moving into, but it’s still nice. The piano player calms my nerves as I order food and lose myself in the rhythm of the ivory keys. I have no idea how to play and probably never will. I’m drawn to the alluring way chords can strike so much emotion. How certain chords resonate with how I feel.

Each rhythm can hack the encrypted emotions I’ve mastered to suppress. I call it an early night to prepare for San Francisco bright and early the next morning.

My bachelor condo has more room than any other living space I’ve called mine. Shared foster bedrooms or dingy plain rooms hosting a single bed and dresser are all I’ve known. Now, I’m in a brighter box with a city view. It doesn’t take long to unpack my three suitcases full of possessions. I’ve been conditioned to never need much, though it’s trendy to coin the term minimalist nowadays. The bonus of this place is that it came furnished. My stomach grumbles, signaling me to venture into what the nearby streets offer to eat.

The streets are packed. Large sidewalks are filled with locals trying to push through the sea of confused tourists. The muttering of conversations, car engines and distant music make up the white noise of this city. I follow the smell of fresh grilled food and reach a market around the corner. Warmth hits my chest, pushing forward my smile that I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing. Having this market close is convenient since I don’t cook beyond scrambled eggs and oatmeal.

My legs burn by the time I reach a coffeehouse. The layered city hills look fascinating, until you have to walk up them to get anywhere. I’m not lazy. I do prioritize the gym after a twelve-hour shift, but these hills might just replace the gym. Cars honk as I watch a driver nearly hit a pedestrian too busy looking at his phone and walking into the street. Driving and finding cheap parking in this city is too overwhelming. I decide at this moment to sell my old car and take a cab to work. I can use the car money for a special project I’m holding dearly to my heart anyway.

“Welcome to San Francisco General, Lauren McAllister.” I look up at the gray-haired registered nurse practitioner. “You will be working alongside me today.”

I look up at her.