Page 30 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Reggie

S an Miguel de Allende was bright, loud, and unapologetically alive. It smelled like earth, roasted chilies, and the occasional unexpected waft of jasmine.

In the mornings, the bells of the Parroquia rang out across the town square like a hymn. By midday, the cobblestone streets baked beneath the sun, and everything slowed to a dreamy crawl. Kids chased stray dogs while vendors called out about fresh mangoes, tajín, and paletas.

I loved it…as a tourist. Living here was, well, different .

I missed Seattle. I missed the misty mornings that curled around the Sound, the sting of sea air in my lungs, and the quiet, gray hush of the city before it woke up.

I missed Pike Place Market—the smell of coffee and fish, the chaos of flower stalls; the little French bakery tucked between the spice shop, and the guy who always played the cello near the gum wall. God, I even missed the dreaded rain.

I missed my job—the rush of the OR, the focus, and the sense of knowing exactly who I was the moment I stepped into scrubs. I missed watching a surgeon keep someone alive.

I missed my routine, my apartment, my team. I missed Luther—his booming laugh and the way he always knew when I needed to talk and when I just needed to sweat it out.

And I missed Elias.

I didn’t want to. I told myself I shouldn’t. But every time I smelled strong coffee or heard a deep voice, my heart would stutter like it was trying to find him in the noise.

Life was the complete opposite of what it had been in Seattle.

I lived with my parents—and in some ways, it was like being a kid again.

I didn’t have to worry about what to eat, doing laundry, or even making my bed.

That part was great . But then they nagged me about getting enough sleep, not watching too much television, and not working too hard—which was unpleasant since I was thirty years old and had lived alone for a good part of my life.

We lived in a warm, sun-filled colonial just off one of the winding, colorful streets that climbed toward the hills.

The house was lined with hand-painted tiles and bougainvillea that had no respect for the edges of anything.

Art—half modern, half antique—hung on the walls, and there was always music playing: my father’s jazz, my mother’s opera, and sometimes my grandpa’s old Edith Piaf records when I was feeling nostalgic.

The kitchen was always busy. My father cooked like it was love, and my mother made coffee like it was a ritual—which it was.

I sat with them in the evenings on the back terrace, nursing a glass of mezcal and trying not to let myself think about him .

Even now, months later, after everything—after the betrayal, the apologies, the confession, the aftermath—I missed him.

I hated that I missed him because the worst part wasn’t the heartbreak; it was the fact that I still loved him, even when I didn’t want to.

The clinic was small—just five rooms total—with whitewashed stucco walls and a blue-tiled waiting area shaded by a rustling jacaranda tree.

We weren’t a hospital. We were a triage hub for the four mobile units my parents had funded, a place to catch the cases that needed follow-ups, dressing changes, medication refills, or second opinions.

We had three full-time nurses, a part-time general practitioner, one overworked part-time dentist who always smelled faintly of cloves, and several part-time interns.

I spoke Spanish fluently—growing up between New York, Boston, and Mexico City during my father’s diplomatic years—and here, it rolled off my tongue like breath.

I could give instructions, take histories, reassure anxious abuelas , and teach a diabetic teenager how to use her glucometer without needing a translator.

I wore my hair in a braid again. I hadn’t done that in years.

The one thing that was similar to Seattle was that I felt useful, which I had missed since I left Harper Memorial and found comfort in a cashmere wrap in G’Mum’s brownstone.

But , as useful as I felt, I didn’t feel whole. Something was missing.

“ Or someone ,” the little devil who lived in my head offered.

“Shut up! My brain needs to become an Elias-free zone, STAT !”

A month after I took over managing the clinic, Mama came in as I was restocking the pharmacy closet.

“I ate breakfast,” I said defensively. The last time I skipped it, she brought it over, and I got roasted by the staff for being la enfermerita de mami , mama’s baby nurse.

Mama shot me a look of mock exasperation. “I slave and slave and slave, and I have you complaining about how well I take care of you.”

I put down a box of painkillers and gave her a quick hug. “If you didn’t bring food, what are you doing here? Do you want to help sterilize wound trays?” I teased .

She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you, but I know you’re short-staffed, so we hired help for the clinic.”

I arched an eyebrow. “We? I thought I was running this place.”

She looked guilty as hell but hid it quickly and shrugged. “This was…we did it before we knew you were coming. So…anyway, he starts today.”

“He?” I narrowed my eyes.

“A referral,” she explained hurriedly, still looking like she was up to no good. “Someone who wanted to do meaningful work and had relevant experience.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Who referred him?”

She smiled. “A grandmother you may or may not have recently yelled at.”

Oh, God!

“G’Mum? She probably sent us a serial killer or a hitman!”

“She’d never send a serial killer,” Mama chimed.

“But a hitman?”

Mama let out a huff. “Well, you know how Mum is—so yes, that’s entirely possible.

But in any case, it would be someone coming to help at the clinic.

A medical professional.” She then tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Though, to be fair, a medical professional would make an excellent hitman. They’d know exactly how to cause the most damage with the least effort—and leave no evidence behind. ”

“It’s the dream,” I snapped sarcastically. “So, do you have a CV for this man you hired? ”

Mama patted the pockets of her shorts to indicate they were empty. “He’ll be here soon. You can check out his credentials.”

I studied her with suspicion. “I have a feeling this is not going to be good.”

“You should always trust your feelings,” she said breezily.

I didn’t have much time to think about whomever G’Mum had hired because we had a busy morning and an even busier afternoon.

The clinic was packed—kids with stomach bugs, two wound cleanings, one elderly man with dangerously high blood pressure, and a woman with gestational diabetes in early labor whom the mobile clinic took to a hospital an hour away.

Supplies were low, the power flickered twice, and I hadn’t sat down since nine in the morning.

By the time I finally took a breath, my scrubs were wrinkled, my feet were aching, and I had more iodine on my hands than coffee in my system.

“ Dios mio , that was one busy day,” the other nurse on staff, Juanita, exclaimed as she slumped in a chair.

“But thank God, it’s almost over.” I sighed as I collapsed next to her.

Then the door creaked open, and we both groaned.

No, no, no, we were too tired for another patient.

I looked up reluctantly, my face glum.

I lost all breath when I saw him, in jeans and a linen button-down, standing in my clinic, the sun behind him, hair slightly tousled, eyes locked on mine .

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, completely stunned.

Juanita straightened to see who had entered the clinic. “That’s the best-looking patient we’ve ever had, be nice,” she quipped.

I glowered at her. “He’s not a patient.”

“No, I’m not,” he agreed as he walked up to where we sat. “I’m the new hire.”

“No way,” I managed to choke out at the same time Juanita suggestively said, “ Ay, papacito .”

Fucking G’Mum and Mama and my crazy-ass family!