Page 32 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Reggie

A pickup truck skidded into the gravel lot in front of the clinic, tires throwing up dust, horn blaring like a warning siren. The door flew open before the engine even cut off. A man burst out, wild-eyed and shouting, his voice cracking with fear.

“Mi hijo! Está sangrando mucho—ayuda!”

My pulse spiked as I moved quickly. Gloves snapped onto my hands with muscle memory. I met the man at the passenger side just as he tried to lift a boy into his arms, Juanita following me.

“ Déjeme ,” I said gently, taking over. I didn’t want the father to move the patient.

The boy—maybe ten years old—was curled in on himself, his face pinched in pain, his breath hitching with quiet, hiccupped sobs. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his ribs like a second skin. A flannel button-down, probably his dad’s, was wadded against his side, already dark red.

“Laceration,” I stated automatically to Juanita. “Possible puncture. Let’s get him inside.”

The father was sobbing openly now, stumbling beside me, one hand still touching his son’s ankle like he couldn’t let go.

Elias came running. He didn’t even ask what happened, just took one look at the boy and started barking orders. “Juanita, suction and lidocaine. I need gauze, saline, and a suture tray. Move .”

He scooped the boy into his arms and carried him inside while I held pressure on the wound, praying we weren’t too late.

Inside the clinic, it was focused chaos as it was in situations like this with experienced medical personnel.

Elias laid the kid—Quito, the father told us—on a gurney as I pulled his shirt away. Blood surged fresh and bright from a jagged gash just below his left ribcage.

“No lung involvement.” Elias palpated carefully. “But it’s deep. Clean slice. Probably glass.”

“He fell on a broken bottle,” the father sobbed. “Running…he fell…”

Juanita handed me the irrigation, and I got to work rinsing the wound as Elias numbed the area with lidocaine. The boy clenched his fists, eyes glistening, tears streaking down his face—but he didn’t scream.

He was trying to be brave. My heart went out to him.

“You’re doing amazing,” I told him softly in Spanish, brushing his hair off his forehead. “ Casi terminamos . Almost done.”

“Will he be okay?” Juanita whispered, her voice tight with worry.

“Focus, Juanita,” Elias commanded, his tone calm but sharp and then added, I think to comfort her, understanding that she wasn’t an experienced surgical or ER nurse, “We’ve got this.”

And we did.

Elias sutured with clean, precise strokes. I kept the bleeding under control and monitored the boy’s vitals on the basic equipment we had.

Juanita held the boy’s hand and murmured soft reassurances in Spanish while the boy’s father hovered helplessly at the end of the gurney, hands clenched into fists, eyes locked on every movement we made.

It took about twenty minutes— fast , in trauma time. The bleeding slowed, the skin came together, and the color started to return to Quito’s lips.

“No major vessel involvement. Closure’s good. Monitor for infection, but he’s in the clear,” Elias announced.

The father collapsed into a plastic chair against the wall like his strings had been cut. I knelt next to him, removing my gloves. Tears spilled over his cheeks, and he reached out to grab my hand. I let him .

“He’s going to be okay,” I told the father.

As we wheeled Quito toward recovery, his small fingers found my wrist, his grip weak but intentional.

“ Gracias ,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. “ De nada, corazón .”

Behind me, Elias stood at the doorway, arms crossed, watching me get Quito settled, and for one breathless moment, everything felt… right , as if we weren’t so broken after all.

A while later, I found Elias in the back courtyard, sitting on the old concrete bench under the flowering jacaranda tree. His sleeves were rolled up, his scrub top untucked, and a smear of blood was still on his forearm. He looked tired, but he was quietly and achingly beautiful.

“You were good today.” I sat next to him.

He looked at me, his eyes filled with quiet affection. “So were you. But then, Gigi, you always are.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, the warm breeze carrying the scent of street food and jasmine from down the block. The sky above San Miguel was brushed in gold, fading into the kind of blue that only happened at dusk.

“I miss you,” I blurted out.

His breath shuddered.

“But I don’t know how to forgive you,” I admitted, looking straight ahead, not at him, my hands clasped together .

His lips curved as a warmth entered his gaze. “I understand, baby. You don’t have to. Not yet. Not ever, if that’s what you need. I just want to be here… with you … if you’ll let me.”

I appreciated that he wasn’t trying to fix us by making promises, demands, or apologizing. He was just asking to be with me no matter how I felt.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been lonely without you,” he replied simply.

I let my head fall back against the bench. “Do you remember the café we used to go to in Boston?”

He smiled faintly. “With the bad coffee and the one surly waiter?”

It was close to Elias’s place, and we used to go there on our way to work when I spent the night with him. It was a safe spot for a quick drop-in. No Stratford people hung out there.

“I thought about it today. During the sutures.”

“Yeah?”

I gave him a small, shaky smile. “It just popped up into my head. Was I your dirty secret in Boston?”

His eyes flashed hurt. “ No .”

“But—”

“It was casual…or at least I wanted it to be. You and I both agreed that no good would come of the hospital finding out an attending and a nurse were sleeping together. That’s all it was. No secret and definitely not di rty, Gigi.”

I believed him. I hadn’t minded then, keeping us quiet, but I wondered now, in hindsight, how he felt, especially since he’d said he was in love with me and had been since Boston.

“I watched your hands today while you were irrigating,” he mused. “They don’t shake. You’re steady, always .”

Not steady right now, Dr. Graham. My footing is tremulous at best. I don’t know what’s happening between us—but I do know that I’m scared to find out.

We sat in silence.

I let him hold my hand as we watched the sunset.

I reluctantly left him to go home, and as soon as I finished dinner with my parents, I led with my heart and gave in to temptation.

I texted Elias: Feel like a walk?

He met me by the plaza beneath the shadow of the Parroquia—its rose-colored spires glowing in the amber light like a holy beacon.

The bells had stopped ringing, and the whole town had shifted into that magic hour lull: shops closing, laughter rising from the cafés, and guitar music drifting like perfume from a bench just beyond the square.

We strolled, our steps falling into sync over the uneven cobblestones. A warm breeze caught on the scent of tamales and charcoal, and somewhere, a street vendor called out his last offer of the day.

Being near him again was like slipping into an old sweater that still remembers the shape of your shoulders. It was familiar. And maybe a little dangerous?

We ended up by the Mercado de Artesanías and sat on the low wall just outside. A woman across the street was stringing papel picado across her window, bright tissue flags fluttering like sighs.

“You really came here for me?” I asked, hearing how dumb the words sounded only when I said them aloud.

No, Reggie, he just stumbled into San Miguel de Allende by accident.

He took my hand in his, lacing his fingers with mine and then unlacing them. “I came here for us ,” he explained slowly. “I came here to beg forgiveness for all the fucking wrongs I committed against you. I came here to win the love of my life back.”

He could’ve punched me, and I would’ve been less out of breath.

Love of his life? Was the man drunk or what?

“Why did you think I came here?” he asked when the silence between us stretched to the point that it was evident I didn’t have much to say to his love of my life declaration.

“You felt guilty?”

“I do.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Honestly, I believe you when you say you came here for us , for me…but I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Because you don’t trust me? ”

I jerked my head in a decisive nod. “I also don’t trust myself. After Boston, I should’ve kept you at five arms’ distance; instead…we started seeing each other again in Seattle, falling into that old pattern of on-call room fucking and…” I trailed off.

“Maren?” he offered.

I lifted my shoulders in a helpless gesture. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I turned to him then. He looked tired but still himself, stripped down in some ways, honest.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” I complained. “Seattle Elias. Boston Elias. Head-of-surgery Elias. The man I loved, the man who broke me, the man who came to Mexico.”

He didn’t argue or interrupt me—he just listened.

“You left me to drown,” I continued, quieter now but angrier. “In that M&M meeting and in the silence that followed. I was still swimming my way back from it…and bam , you’re in Seattle, and history was repeating itself.”

He nodded slowly, breathing in like it hurt.

For a few minutes, I shut the hell up. There was just the murmur of Spanish from a nearby food cart, the clink of plates, a baby crying, and the city exhaling around us.

“I can’t promise anything,” I murmured.

He looked at me sharply.

“That’s the best I can give you right now,” I added.

His eyes reflected both relief and heartbreak. “Then I’ll take it. And I’m not asking for promises, Gigi, just a chance to try again.”

“Thanks for listening to me.” I meant it.

He’d given me the space to unload my feelings, and it had helped. I felt lighter because I felt like I no longer had to carry all that sordid history alone.

“Thanks for telling me.” He brushed his lips against my cheek. “May I walk you home?”

“Yes.”

We walked hand-in-hand, and it felt like we were on a date.