Page 37 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Reggie

I never thought I’d be happy to smell that distinct Harper Memorial antiseptic again. But the moment I stepped into the cardiology wing of Harper Memorial, my heart did a stupid little somersault.

The place buzzed, as always, with controlled chaos—monitors beeping, scrubs swishing, voices low but urgent—the same impossible clockwork. But nothing was the same because I was different.

It had been four months since Elias showed up at the clinic in San Miguel de Allende and asked me to trust him again. Then , I hadn’t seen Seattle at the end of the road—partly because I had been living in the now with no future planned so I could heal.

No one in San Miguel de Allende had been surprised when we announced we were going back to Seattle.

Since we got back together, everyone was expecting it.

So had I, even before I admitted it, because I had been training Juanita to take over clinic management.

I assured my parents I’d come back to do interviews when Juanita started med school—which the Lancaster Foundation had decided to fund.

Even though I wanted to come back to Seattle—it had been bittersweet to leave. I cried on the plane, and I held Elias’s hand until we touched down.

A part of me felt that Seattle was unfinished business—but now, walking toward the nurses’ station, I knew that the unfinished business had been me , not my geography.

The nurses station was strangely empty when I knocked on Cindy’s door.

The look she gave me when I stepped inside was pure clinical neutrality.

“Regina.” She stood up and smoothed her lab coat like she was about to deliver a policy update. “You’re scheduled to begin orientation with the surgical team tomorrow. I’ve reviewed your credentials and reinstatement paperwork. All of it is?—”

“—in order,” I finished with a grin.

She gave a prim nod. “Exactly.”

“So…you missed me or what?”

Cindy snorted. “You wish.”

And then, like a switch flipped, she let out a sharp breath, walked around her desk, and threw her arms around me.

“You’re back!” she whispered fiercely. “God, I missed you. Don’t make me do all the admin myself again; it nearly killed me.”

I laughed into her shoulder. “I missed you, too.”

She pulled back and looked me over. “You look… grounded. I don’t know what Elias did to fix this, but I’m glad he didn’t screw it up this time.”

“Oh, he still might,” I teased. “But I’m stronger now. I won’t break.”

“That’s good because you know we nurses have to keep these attendings on their toes”—she tapped the side of her temple—“because we’re smarter.”

She led me to the break room and…surprise! My colleagues had put together a low-key potluck in the break room, which involved too much sugar and a deeply disturbing cake shaped like a heart valve (or the head of a penis?).

I hadn’t expected fanfare or to be ambushed by a full-blown reunion. But I was grateful for it.

“ Yo ! Is that Nurse Sanchez back in her scrubs?” Luther’s deep voice boomed across the room.

I grinned. “Just checking in to make sure you haven’t scared off all the new residents.”

Nina practically tackled me with a hug, nearly knocking my badge off. “Oh my God, you’re really back! We thought you were going to live in a hut in Mexico forever!”

“Please.” Luther rolled his eyes. “As if! You knew she was going to come back, she can’t live without hospital-grade coffee.”

“Ugh. That I did not miss at all.”

I looked around at their faces—laughing, grinning, warm. It hit me how much I’d missed them. Missed this. The shorthand language of shared trauma and too many night shifts.

“You ready for this?” Luther asked quietly, nudging my shoulder.

I nodded. “I’ve never been more ready.”

The next day, as I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and joined the team for rounds, I felt it—not just relief, not just closure, but a sense of rightness. Of being exactly where I was meant to be. I was home.

Some things had changed—I had changed—but Harper Memorial hadn’t. The beeping monitors still sang the same rhythm, the halls still buzzed with clipped conversation, and the gossip was still in full force.

“So, Dr. Graham and you are together?”

I nodded.

“Together, together?” Someone else asked.

“They’re living together, so, yeah,” Luther shut them all down.

Then I got the lowdown on Dr. Maren Loring.

“Mrs. D received plenty of testimony—and they unearthed email exchanges that confirmed Dr. Loring made Dr. Agar file a complaint against you,” I was told by a resident while we were prepping for surgery.

“Dr. Cabrera never said what happened in the closed-door disciplinary panel, but the rumor is he read her the riot act in front of the board. Told her she’ll never work as a surgeon again.” This came from an attending.

Within a week, the news of the day changed when a new attending started in neuro ( apparently , she was hotter than hot)—and Elias, Maren, and I were relegated to the archives.

Unfortunately, Maren remained top of the fold for me for a bit longer.

It was Friday night, and I was at the Rob Roy, one of my favorite Belltown cocktail joints, waiting for Elias to wrap up a consult.

With dim lighting, smooth jazz, and strong drinks—Rob Roy was my kind of vibe. I ordered a saffron sandalwood sour and tried not to check my phone for the third time in five minutes.

Where the hell was he?

“Reggie.” I didn’t need to look to my right to see who owned the voice, but I did, schooling my face to show no emotion.

Maren was in a tight designer dress and had a drink in hand that looked like the bar’s amaro cocktail, the sacred twister . Very apropos!

Her makeup was immaculate, not a strand of hair out of place, like someone had personally spritzed her with polished ambition . She’d obviously walked from a booth or table up to me.

I was so honored!

I considered how to respond to her greeting—and then decided not to. Instead, I turned away, smiled at the bartender, and caught the drink he slid across the counter. “Thank you,” I said, like she wasn’t even there.

“Reggie, this is childish. I’m right here.” She used the adult-to-child tone that would probably make anyone squirm, but I was made of sterner stuff. I was, after all, Faye Lancaster’s granddaughter.

I sipped my drink and nodded at the bartender. “This thing is the bomb”—I peered at his name tag—“Solo.”

The bartender looked at Maren and then me. Then, as if he’d assessed the situation, grinned. He leaned over, pressing his forearms against the counter. “It’s the saffron—makes all the difference.”

“Excuse me, we’re having a conversation,” Maren snapped at Solo, who gave her a look of insouciance.

“May I help you?” Solo enquired pleasantly.

“Yes, you can leave us alone.”

“Stop being such a bitch.” I swiveled around on the stool. “What is your damage? I don’t want to talk to you. Go away .”

She fixed me with a sharp, venomous stare. “I thought you’d like closure.”

“I’m all closed up, thank you.”

“Look, I made mistakes, alright.”

“Maren, if that’s an apology, it needs serious work,” I retorted.

Solo chuckled and when I gave him a nod, telling he was fine to leave me with the weird woman, he went to help another guest.

“And,” I continued. “You didn’t make mistakes, you made decisions. Don’t dress it up.”

Maren’s expression held, but her shoulders stiffened. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Just a happy accident then?” I threw back sarcastically.

That landed. A flicker in her eyes—regret or realization, I couldn’t tell.

I realized then that the worst part of what happened wasn’t the write-ups, or the OR ban, or even Elias believing her over me; it was me wondering if maybe Maren was right, that I wasn’t good enough, that perhaps I’d never been.

Maren straightened, her voice crisp. “You got your job back. What more do you want?”

I smiled, cold and honest. “Nothing, Maren. I’m not seeking closure, that would be you. Maybe you’re looking for redemption or…I don’t know. But I can’t give you any of it. What you did is inexcusable—your arrogance hurt a patient, and then instead of taking responsibility, you blamed me for it.”

“I didn’t know you were a Lancaster,” she said tightly.

I propped myself against the counter, suddenly feeling dejected. Maren wasn’t here to give her or me closure or even apologize; she was here because of my family name .

“I’m Regina Sanchez, RN.”

Maren’s eyes widened suddenly. When I followed her line of sight, I saw Elias walk in—his expression somewhere between angry bull and vicious dog—as he strode toward us.

“Hey, baby.” I put a hand on his forearm.

“You okay?” he asked, his nostrils flaring.

“Course I’m okay.” I held up my drink. I didn’t want a scene. I also didn’t want Maren to ruin our evening. She wasn’t worth it.

“Elias.” Maren’s voice was husky like she was holding back tears.

“Maren,” he choked her name out, standing stiffly next to me, crowding me on my bar stool.

“Your father must be happy you’re both together.” She turned her glare at me, her eyes burning with fury. “Did you know that Elias’s father is all about making alliances, and he’d love one with your family.”

“You just lost your job and maybe could lose your license, and this is the shot you’re taking?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Maren, sister, you need therapy, STAT.”

“He’s using you like he used me,” she spit the words out.

“And I’m using his big D energy.” I felt Elias’s body relax. “And by D, I mean Doctor.”

Maren looked flustered, unable to understand why her barbs weren’t hitting. I didn’t quite know how to explain it to her in a way that her emotionally puny brain could understand—but we, Elias and I, were past other people interfering in our relationship.

Maren walked back from whence she came, and Elias took a seat next to me.

“How did that feel?” he asked.

I gave a careless shrug. “Like nothing.” I beamed at him. “Guess what, I made reservations at Aerlume.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He looked at me like I was special and I had to say that felt good—really, really good.

“Because I made reservations at your favorite restaurant?”

He grinned. “Please, you’re the one who’s addicted to their Spanish octopus.”

“You’re the one who’s crazy about their halibut,” I retorted, draining my drink.

That night, when we lay in bed in his sterile apartment, he stroked my back. “I felt like that, too,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like she meant nothing—because I didn’t feel anything when Cabrera told me she was fired. I just didn’t care. So, I understand when you say you feel nothing for her.”

I raised my face so I could look at him. “You can’t bring up your ex right after we had monkey sex.”

He looked at me, his blue eyes filled with love and affection. “How about if it’s normal sex?”

I lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Enh, then I guess you can.”

“Sometimes”—his eyes filled with tears—“I can’t believe I have you.”

I kissed his lips. “We have each other.”

“Thank God!”

“I think it’s you we have to thank, Eli.” I moved so I was straddling him. “If you hadn’t come to Mexico…if you hadn’t had the courage to fight for us…but you did, and here we are. Now, let’s let the past go and try monkey sex again.”

He put his hands on my hips and moved me off his body. “Sorry, Gigi, I got surgery at five tomorrow. I need some sleep.”

I lay on my back, shaking my head. “This is what happens. You live together, and sex goes out of the window.”

He moved so fast that he made my head spin, and then he was on top of me, inside me, with me.

He flexed his hips and moved inside me. “What did you say about what was going out the window?”

I wrapped my arms around him, and my legs draped across his hips. “I love you, Elias Graham, so, so much.”

He kissed my nose. “I love you, Gigi. But we really need to stop having sex after midnight when I have a five am call.”

It was a fast fuck, but it was my second orgasm of the night, so I didn’t complain.