Page 9

Chapter

Six

Jordan

Jordan wrapped up the last of his shift at the nurse’s station, feeling that late-afternoon drag settle in. It always took him a solid week to recover from a night shift, but he couldn’t say no when he knew how short-staffed they were, and it didn’t affect his team.

Clipboard in hand, he jotted down a quick set of vitals for a final patient, then tossed the pen back in its holder. He logged off the computer, mentally checking off his list: patient files updated, meds double-checked for the next shift, his station cleared. All of it was so routine, he didn’t have to leave his head to get it right.

And inside his head was all Rhonda. If she’d been serious in their text conversation that morning, she should be arriving any minute. He glanced up, scanning the lobby and ER intake area for the hundredth time.

He’d thought all afternoon about what it meant that his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a packet of Pop Rocks. Gertie, the shift coordinator, had already commented on how frequently he was checking his phone when he rarely took it out of his pocket on normal days.

How could Rhonda think that he wouldn’t remember her? Had she been that out of it the night before that she hadn’t noticed the hints he’d been trying to send?

Jordan turned, flicked on the shredder, and started shoving in papers from the top of the trash pile. They’d moved to a digital record system years ago, but this stack was all the old records that were still being transitioned when old patients came back for a visit.

She wasn’t out of his system. That was all he knew for certain. Every time he saw her, it was like he’d been standing in a dim room, and someone suddenly flicked on the lights.

But what did that mean? Was he intrigued? Was his mind trying to make sense of the fact that she didn’t want to hook up again after the two explosive nights they’d had? Or was he feeling a bit insecure since she’d made it clear at the bar that the team he played for trumped any connection they had. Could it have been as good as he thought if she was able to shut it down that fast?

No. It’d been good.

He replayed the moment she’d left his truck that night in the parking lot. “It’s a good thing you don’t live locally. This would be too tempting.”

He reached for another stack of paper and shoved it into the metal teeth. Rhonda had contacted him to get to Dr. Mallory. She’d had that napkin with his number on it for months and hadn’t used it until now.

But she’d kept it.

That fact kept ringing through his head. She hadn’t known at the bar that he had any connection to Rocky Ridge, but she hadn’t thrown it out. He tucked that bit of information away.

A pang of guilt hit his stomach as he fed the next batch of old patient records through the shredder. He hadn't explicitly told Rhonda that he had an “in” with Dr. Mallory, but he also hadn't been honest about the fact that he was the last person in that hospital who could ask a favour from him. Jordan was a damn good nurse and that fact hadn’t protected him from what happened the previous February.

Jordan turned when movement caught his eye and froze. Rhonda was there across the room, standing at the intake desk in front of the entry. She looked polished and professional, like she’d just stepped off the set of some corporate commercial. Her blazer hugged her shoulders, and her curly hair was . . . tamed. He had to admit, he liked it better splayed around her face on his leather seat.

Jordan caught himself staring and dropped his eyes. What was he doing? He’d wanted to see her again, but now that she was here?—

“Here we go,” Gertie murmured.

Jordan looked up and frowned. When had she arrived? He turned just in time for Rhonda’s eyes to meet his. The corner of her mouth twitched as she smoothed her blazer, her heels clicking on the linoleum as she strode toward the nurse’s station. The closer she got, the harder it was to ignore the pull low in his stomach.

Rhonda stopped in front of the counter, her hands lightly folded in front of her, the faintest flush on her cheeks.

“Where can I direct you?” Gertie asked, her voice gruff. It was disturbing and impressive how she could transform from a kind-hearted granny into a hardened prison guard in a matter of seconds.

Jordan had worked at Rocky Ridge long enough to know what Gertie’s greetings meant. “Hello, sweetheart,” meant she knew the person approaching was having a shit day. “How can I help you?” meant that person had already bothered her or one of the other nurses on shift, and “Where can I direct you?” was as good as a middle finger.

Rhonda hadn’t done anything wrong, but Gertie had taken one look at her outfit and made the assumption—correctly—that Rhonda was one of the many professionals trying to get an appointment with the hospital administration. It wasn’t only Dr. Mallory that made things difficult. Rocky Ridge was as steeped in tradition as The Original Six.

“I’m right where I need to be,” Rhonda answered. “I think.” Her eyes flicked to him, and she looked suddenly unsure.

Jordan stepped forward. “Yep. Thanks for meeting me.” He swiped his ID card to clock out. “You want to grab a coffee?”

Rhonda hesitated, looking briefly over her shoulder as if debating her options. “Sure.”

Jordan would’ve given his left nut to know what was going through her head right then, and that was saying something. His left nut was his unspoken favourite.

“Where’s your report?” Gertie eyed him.

“Already handed off to Marie.” Jordan put a hand on her shoulder. “See you Sunday.”

Gertie shrugged him off. “We’re short-staffed with you at half-time.”

He winked. “You can just tell me you miss me.” He motioned for Rhonda to follow him down the hallway toward the hospital’s attached coffee shop.

“How was work?”

“Good.” His heart hammered against his ribs. What was it about her that made him feel like he’d just finished a round of suicides? He’d never felt like this around a woman before, especially not one he’d already slept with. His prowess in the bedroom had always been a source of pride. Confidence. It gave a strange sort of power when a woman looked at him and knew from experience what he was capable of.

With Rhonda, it was the exact opposite. She’d tasted the forbidden fruit and had decided she didn’t want it anymore. That lit a fuse that was slowly incinerating, edging closer and closer to a blast he wouldn’t be able to contain.

Women weren’t able to quit him that easily. And as much as he wanted to pull her into the storage closet they’d be passing in less than four seconds and remind her what she was missing, he kept to the script he’d pre-planned after receiving her text. You don’t want her either.

Jordan matched his stride with Rhonda’s as they moved down the fluorescent-lit hallway, passing the rows of curtained-off exam bays. Antiseptic seemed to be ground into the grout between the tiles, the scent was so overpowering, and the low mechanical beeps and shuffling footsteps barely registered.

They passed two other nurses, and both of them gave Jordan a raised eyebrow. He was going to hear all about this on Sunday. He was the minority in this hospital, and working in a sea of women meant that his love life was always under scrutiny. He didn’t date his co-workers. But he hadn’t seen a problem with dating a few of their sisters.

Jordan guided Rhonda down a side hall to the coffee shop. It was a small, unassuming place, wedged into the corner just past the gift shop, but for him, it was a kind of refuge. Every morning, he stopped by here, talking with the same staff who knew his order by heart.

He’d hoped it would be dead at that time in the afternoon, but the place buzzed with activity—doctors grabbing a caffeine fix, patient families picking up snacks since it wasn’t quite late enough to justify a full dinner. Rhonda took it all in as he motioned for her to join him at the counter.

Oscar, the barista, caught sight of them and flashed a grin. “Hey, Jordan. Usual?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, then turned to Rhonda. “What are you having?”

She scanned the chalkboard menu. “I’ll take a caramel macchiato, please.” Jordan swiped his card, and Rhonda frowned. “You don’t need to?—”

“It’s fine. Coffees are free for staff.” Technically, he only got two free coffees a day, but he’d given up his morning cup so he could use both that afternoon.

They waited a moment, then took their drinks and found a corner booth.

"So last night was a little embarrassing." Rhonda tapped her fingers on her cup and took a sip.

"You know I regularly look at people's assholes, right?" he said. Rhonda nearly snorted out her drink, and Jordan grinned. "Sorry. It felt like saying something extreme would get my point across."

Rhonda searched for a napkin, but there weren't any on the table. Jordan stood and walked over to the dispenser and grabbed her one. When he returned, she'd mostly mopped it up with her fingertips, but her bottom lip was still wet. Jordan had the sudden urge to reach out and wipe it.

He set the napkins on the table and sat back down, forcing his hands to his lap.

"It was kind of a shock to see you there." Rhonda dabbed the napkin to her lips.

"Would it have been less shocking if you didn't have someone with you?" he asked.

Rhonda looked at him quizzically. "I doubt it. Would it have enhanced your experience?"

Jordan smirked. "I'm pretty good at keeping work and pleasure separate." The statement didn’t ring as true as it would’ve in the past. He did not enjoy seeing Aaron, or whatever the hell his name was, standing with his hand on Rhonda’s shoulder.

Rhonda’s pupils dilated just enough that he knew that comment hit. So, she didn't hate him enough to not be thinking about what had happened between them. Even when she was in the midst of a full-on anaphylactic attack. But it wasn’t good enough. He was still dying to know exactly what she thought about their prior encounters. Maybe if he had a little closure, the buzzing in his head every time she was in his vicinity would stop.

Jordan had never been one for finesse in conversation. He'd pissed off plenty of people in his personal life and at work because of his brusque nature. In his twenties, he may have cared, but in his mid-thirties, he just didn't give a shit anymore. He’d learned when to keep his mouth closed, but if he was going to open it, he was going to say what he thought. Or in this case, ask what he wanted to ask.

"Do you regret it?" He didn't need to know if the sex was good. That had been obvious.

Rhonda blinked, then set her drink back on the table. "Regret what?" she parried, knowing damn well what he was asking. He didn't give her the satisfaction of an explanation. He leaned back in the bench seat and waited.

Rhonda opened her mouth then closed it again. "I gave up regrets a long time ago."

That wasn't a full no, but it wasn't a yes, either. He would take it. "What made you stay in my hotel room that first night?"

Rhonda blew out a breath. "I actually came here to talk about?—"

Jordan held up a hand. "Yeah. I know. Doctor Mallory. But if I'm going to help you with this and we're going to be seeing each other again, I need to clear the air."

Rhonda raised an eyebrow. "Clear the air? Do you have a problem with me?"

Jordan nodded. "Yeah."

Rhonda's mild look of amusement turned to a frown. "I—" She looked down at her coffee cup. "Did I?—"

"My problem is that every time I see you, I want to strip your clothes off and lift you back onto the seat of my truck.” Jordan lowered his voice. Rhonda didn't look up, just tightened her grip on her coffee cup. He took a deep breath and continued. "That's not usually a problem for me. Once I've been with someone, I don't have strong feelings about whether I'm with that someone again. Considering how we met, I'm guessing it's the same for you?"

Rhonda swallowed. Her breathing had quickened, and if he had to guess, he would put her blood pressure right where it had been the night before when he pressed a stethoscope to the inside of her arm.

Her shoulders visibly relaxed, like she suddenly became aware of her own body and told it to back down. She looked up and met his eyes. "Yes. Same for me.”

“But you came with me in Okotoks."

Rhonda flicked her tongue over her lower lip just like she had in the bar that night. "I did."

"Why?"

She gave him a look. "It was a weak moment. And I still didn't know that you lived here."

"So . . . was that your plan then? I was satisfactory enough to hit up when I was in town?"

"I didn't have a plan."

He huffed a breath. "Yeah, people like us aren't really good at that."

Rhonda scoffed. "Okay, I may not have linear, forward momentum with relationships, but that doesn't mean that I'm not serious about my job. Is that what this is? Trying to weed out whether I'm going to be flighty and noncommittal with your boss before you give me access to him?"

Jordan cleared his throat. He should tell her. He should admit that he wouldn’t be able to get her a meeting with Mallory. That she had a better chance of landing an audience with him if she pretended she’d never met him.

But then he thought about her standing up and walking away like she had at the Dusty Rose, about her never using that number he’d scrawled on the napkin, and something inside of him locked down like a table brake.

Jordan ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Rhonda’s face grew serious. “I can show you all the data on the drug I want to get on the formulary here. If that would help.” She picked up her phone then set it down again. “Might be easier on my laptop, but I didn’t bring it.”

Jordan nodded, his pulse rushing in his ears. “Where do you live?”