Chapter 2. Four Dares
I approach Gabrielle at one of the buffet tables, where he’s loading up a plate with mini sandwiches and canapés. He doesn’t notice me at first, so I stand there awkwardly, waiting for my moment.
“Hey,” I say when he finally looks up. This time, the word feels natural, not forced.
“You’re still here,” James says, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. His tone is even but not unfriendly. “I had to go check on one of the patients—Mr. Fisher.”
Straight to work talk. Of course. Well, it’s better than awkward silence.
“The kidney guy?” I ask, nodding, though I suddenly feel self-conscious. I’m way too drunk to be having this conversation, and I can’t tell if he notices.
“Yeah,” Gabrielle replies, picking up a mini sandwich from his plate and taking a bite. “He’s determined to leave before Christmas, but I told him he can’t unless he’s ready to die in the comfort of his own home.”
His tone is dry, almost too casual, but it makes me smile despite myself.
“That’s where you were for two hours?” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop myself. God, why did I have to sound like I was keeping track of him?
“Yeah,” Gabrielle says with a sigh, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “But we gave him some painkillers, so he went to sleep. I can finally relax knowing he’s not going to make another escape attempt.”
“He already tried that once, didn’t he?” I ask, remembering something one of the nurses had mentioned a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Fisher isn’t my patient, but his antics have made him something of a hospital legend.
Gabrielle nods, his expression softening slightly. “Yup. Butt-naked and barefoot. The security guard caught him trying to make it through the metal detectors.”
I can’t help but laugh, incredulous. And then I catch it—a shadow of a smile forming at the corners of Gabrielle’s mouth. God, that smile.
Gabrielle doesn’t smile much. He’s the brooding type—not quite Mr. Darcy’s levels of brooding, but close enough to qualify. At least during work hours. Since I’ve never seen him outside of the hospital, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve caught even a glimpse of that smile this past year.
But now? It’s there, faint but real, and it does something dangerous to me. It melts something in my chest, leaving me feeling soft, gooey, and a little sticky—like caramel left out in the sun.
My phone buzzing snaps me out of the daze. I glance down and see a message from Cat lighting up the screen:
Didya do it?? Write me when its done.
I’m not a hardcore grammar purist, but the mix-up between its and it’s still makes my teeth ache.
When I look back up, Gabrielle is in the middle of devouring another sandwich. The way he opens his mouth, tilting his head back just slightly, shouldn’t be that distracting. But, of course, my overworked, undersexed brain takes a hard left turn into very inappropriate territory. Suddenly, I’m not thinking about how to steer the conversation toward the whole “working out” dare. Instead, my mind is spiraling into thoughts about what else he could do with that mouth.
It’s embarrassing how quickly my brain goes there, but honestly, I’ve been so horny these past few months that it’s becoming a reflex. Between long shifts, sleep deprivation, and zero time to date, my sex drive has been turning even the most mundane moments into thirst traps. At this point, it’s starting to feel like my superpower.
I must have been blatantly staring at him because Gabrielle catches my gaze. He chews quickly, covering his mouth with one hand, and says, “Sorry, these sandwiches are really good. You should try them.”
At that moment, two brilliant ideas hit me. First, eating will help sober me up a little and cover for the fact that I was ogling him. Second, food is the perfect way to ease into the workout topic without sounding weird.
I grab a sandwich and take a bite, trying to sound casual as I ask, “Do you work out?” I quickly add, “You seem to eat a lot, and you look great.”
Gabrielle smirks, a trace of humor flickering in his eyes. “Thanks. Yeah, I do. Do you?”
“Yup,” I say, shrugging with a self-deprecating smile. “Can you tell?”
To my surprise, Gabrielle doesn’t laugh or make a joke. Instead, he looks me over, his gaze briefly drifting to my arms and chest, his expression thoughtful. “Of course. You’re in great shape,” he says, his tone completely serious.
The lack of sarcasm catches me off guard. There’s no teasing in his voice, just calm sincerity, and for a moment, I forget how to respond.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling heat rush up my neck. To cover for it, I pull out my phone and quickly type a reply to Cat:
Done.
I can practically feel her eyes boring into the back of my head from across the room, watching like a hawk. But I don’t dare turn around. For one, it would feel ridiculous—like I’m checking in with my mom or something. And, if I’m honest, there’s another reason: I don’t want to remind Gabrielle about her. Not when he hasn’t brought her up himself.
“The hardest part for me is hitting my protein goal,” Gabrielle says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I blink at him, a little caught off guard because I’d been too busy lost in my own head.
And, of course, my brain instantly dives into the gutter. I can help you reach your protein goal, it supplies helpfully, uninvited.
But out loud, I manage to say, “Yeah, with the hospital schedule, I’m definitely not getting enough either.”
And then, because my brain apparently loves to torment me, it adds, I could use your help. God, the combination of being really drunk and really horny is like Mentos and Coke—I need to sober up before I just climb Gabrielle like a tree.
My phone buzzes again. I throw a quick glance at the screen—it’s Cat again.
Hope ur not lying! Second dare: touch his arm.
I almost roll my eyes. Great, just what I needed—figuring out how to touch him without looking weird or completely obsessed.
Of course, it’s at that exact moment Gabrielle says, “…or do you like eating out?”
I freeze, my alcohol-soaked brain turning to mush. Eating out? My mind spins out of control, veering into territory that absolutely shouldn’t apply to this conversation. I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip. How did we jump to eating out?
Before I can say something really, really embarrassing, Gabrielle steps closer. He repeats himself, louder this time, probably noticing my confusion. “I asked if you meal prep, eat in the hospital cafeteria or if you like eating out?”
I blink, and my face burns so hot I’m sure it’s glowing. Great job, me. Now he’s definitely caught the look on my face—that split-second flash of oh no, I was thinking about eating you out .
And as if that isn’t bad enough, he’s standing so close now that I can catch his scent. It’s clean, warm, and maddeningly manly, the kind of smell that could make you forget your own name.
I need food. Real food. Immediately. Anything to keep the gin and tonic sloshing around inside me from hijacking my brain and forcing me to say something ridiculously horny.
“I eat in the cafeteria mostly,” I say, the words tumbling out, and immediately, I start overthinking them. Did that sound normal? Not weird? Definitely not horny, right?
To cover my growing panic, I add, “But I loooove eating out when I have time.”
That’s when Gabrielle’s meticulously groomed eyebrows shoot up, and I realize—too late—that I’ve oversold it. Nobody loves going out for lunch that much. My face heats up for what feels like the tenth time tonight, and in a desperate attempt to recover, I stammer, “But mostly the cafeteria. The cafeteria’s...good.”
For a second, I’m sure I catch the corners of Gabrielle’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. His gaze lingers on me—not judgmental, not impatient—just there like he’s genuinely paying attention. And it’s so disarming, so intense, that I feel my pulse quicken.
Without thinking, I rush to the buffet table, grabbing another sandwich and stuffing it in my mouth as if carbs will save me from my own awkwardness.
When I turn back, sandwich halfway chewed, Gabrielle is still watching me. His expression is polite, patient, and oddly focused like he’s somehow amused by me without making me feel small. The way he’s looking at me does something strange to my insides, twisting and flipping in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying.
Because for the past year, Gabrielle has been all professionalism: polite, efficient, and distant. Barely sparing me a glance unless it was about jaundice, cancer, or thyroid disease. And now? Now he’s standing here, being so friendly it feels unreal. I can’t screw this up—not even if he’s straight—because it feels too damn good to have him look at me like this.
Gabrielle turns to the buffet table again, picking up a couple of pastries and placing them neatly on his plate. Then, without a word, he grabs a shot of something and downs it in one smooth motion.
The way his throat moves as he swallows almost makes me choke on my sandwich. I glance away and spot Cat at our table in the corner, making a show of squeezing her bicep while gesturing wildly at me. Subtle as ever, Cat. I quickly turn back before Gabrielle notices her, too, and try to focus.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the nerves fluttering in my chest, “how much do you really need to eat to have so much muscle?”
Without giving myself time to second-guess, I reach out and wrap my hand around Gabrielle’s bicep. It’s firm—solid as a rock—and I let go quickly before it gets too weird.
Gabrielle blinks, clearly caught off guard, but before I can spiral into panic, he chuckles softly. The sound is low and warm, and my body practically melts on the spot.
Oh God.
“A lot,” he replies, a hint of a smile lingering on his lips. Then, with a raised brow, he adds, “You’re really drunk, aren’t you?”
My cheeks flare so hot I might as well be on fire. Of course, he noticed. Why did I drink so much? I must have looked too eager—too thirsty —when I squeezed his arm. Now he probably thinks I’m his gay fanboy who wants to throw himself at him. God, why, why, why?
“Ugh…yeah,” I admit, the words coming out in a groan. I want to vanish into thin air, anything to escape that all-knowing smile he’s giving me. “I must have had too many gin and tonics.”
But Gabrielle doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, he chuckles again, and the sound makes my insides bubble like champagne.
“To be honest, I’d like to get drunk too,” he says, his tone light, “but, you know, I have to think about tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod, grasping at anything to keep the conversation going. “Plans for Christmas?”
For a moment, Gabrielle stiffens, and my heart sinks, convinced I’ve accidentally stepped into forbidden territory. But then, his shoulders ease, and his expression softens.
“No, I’m on call tomorrow, actually,” he says.
“No way,” I blurt out, far too loud and far too fast. “Me too!”
The words linger awkwardly between us, way too enthusiastic for casual conversation. My face burns as I instantly regret how they came out. If there’s a hole anywhere in this hospital basement, I’d like to crawl into it now.
But instead of looking annoyed, Gabrielle’s eyes seem to twinkle slightly as they meet mine. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Either way, the look he’s giving me sends a warm, tingling sensation over my skin.
“Really?” he says, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “That…that’ll be nice, actually. Usually, Christmas shifts are pretty quiet, but it’s good to have some competent backup.”
Competent. The word feels meaningful, like a compliment he doesn’t hand out lightly, and it slides through me as smoothly as the seven gin and tonics I probably shouldn’t have had earlier. And I swear he’s standing closer now, though I couldn’t tell you who moved.
My phone buzzes, cutting into my thoughts, but I barely notice it, too caught up in Gabrielle’s proximity and the dizzying pull of his attention that seems to fill the space between us. When I finally glance down at the screen, it’s Cat, of course:
Nice job!! Thiird dare—make him drink two shots!
I groan internally, but at least this one is manageable—and if I pull it off, I’ll only have two dares left. The rules are clear: I can’t refuse two dares in a row, and if I do skip one, I’m stuck with whatever comes next, no matter how awful. Knowing Cat, she’s definitely saving the most humiliating dare for last, so I need to tread carefully.
The gin coursing through my veins fuels a reckless kind of courage. Two shots are a lot, but with a bit of charm, it’s doable. Even if a guy is dead set on not drinking before his shift tomorrow.
“I think I might ease off the cocktails,” I tell Gabrielle with a smirk. “You know, to stay competent tomorrow. But you , on the other hand, need to catch up.” I pick up two shots from the table and hold them out to him, my eyebrows raised in challenge.
To my surprise, he actually grins and takes them.
“Alright, Dr. Hale,” he says with a laugh, and I swear he’s teasing me. Something in my chest melts at the sound of his voice saying Dr. Hale. Somehow, it doesn’t sound like my name—it sounds like a term of endearment.
And who is this guy? This open, laughing, warm version of Gabrielle is so different from the brooding doctor I’ve been low-key pining over for the past year. Broodmaster 2024, the one who stares through me like he’s trying to incinerate me with his laser eyes, feels like a distant memory.
I watch as Gabrielle downs the two shots, one after the other, with a surprising ease that makes my chest flutter. I can’t help myself—I glance quickly toward Cat, who’s sitting at the table, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, clearly stunned that I’m breezing through my dares so quickly.
To be honest, Gabrielle is making this way easier than I expected. Usually, the dares feel like walking a tightrope over disaster, but tonight? He’s the perfect guinea pig.
I pick up two more shots from the table, mostly to show off for Cat, who’s probably losing her mind over how bold I’m being tonight. With a quirked eyebrow, I hold them out to Gabrielle. “Two more?”
Gabrielle hesitates for a second—just a flicker—but it’s enough for me to notice. Of course, even five shots in, his reliable doctor brain hasn’t completely turned off.
So, I lean in slightly, summoning every ounce of charm I have. At this point, I don’t even care how thirsty I might look doing this. “You’ll be fine, right? With those muscles, you must have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol.”
Gabrielle chuckles at that, his gaze flicking to mine with what almost looks like amusement. He picks up the shots with a small nod.
“I actually do,” he says, his voice warm, before effortlessly downing both in quick succession.
Ten seconds later, my phone buzzes, and this time, I can’t quite suppress the smug grin spreading across my face. I already know what’s waiting for me.
U SHOW OFF!!!
I bite back a laugh, throwing another quick look at Cat. She’s hastily typing something on her phone. Knowing her, the next dare is going to be ten times worse—there’s no way she’s letting me win without a fight.
Not that this game has actual winners or losers—but tonight? I’m definitely showing her who’s the boss.
“Oh, Cat’s still here,” Gabrielle says, catching my glance and turning to look at her. He nods in her direction, offering a small wave.
Shit. My stomach drops. Why did I have to ruin everything? We were having such a good time, and now it looks like I’ve ditched a friend for no reason. Of course, this means we’ll have to go join her.
That might not be the worst thing—if the dares stopped. But something tells me Cat won’t let up, not even with Gabrielle sitting a foot away.
“Should we go join her?” Gabrielle asks, as expected.
“Erm,” I stammer, trying to keep my reluctance in check. “Maybe. If you’d like.”
“Sure,” he nods, but before heading over, he loads his plate with more food. I grab two more shots from the table.
Gabrielle glances at the shots and raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “You said you wanted to.”
In truth, I’m hoping that whatever embarrassment awaits me in the next half-hour will be easier to forget if Gabrielle has a little more alcohol in his system.
As we cross the room, I notice a few curious glances from doctors and nurses and catch Chief Kermit’s intrigued gaze. I can’t blame them—it’s probably the first time they’ve seen James Gabrielle this relaxed. It’s like witnessing the aurora borealis in real life: rare, mesmerizing, and completely unexpected.
We reach the small table in the corner, and as soon as Gabrielle sets his plate down, Cat springs up and wraps us both in a hug. Her movements are sloppy, and it’s immediately clear she’s much drunker than before. Her half-closed eyes and swaying stance confirm it.
The worried friend in me kicks in, and I already know that as much as I’d like to stay in Gabrielle’s company, I’ll probably need to make sure Cat gets home safely—or at least call her a cab. Cat has a pretty good drunk navigation system installed in her brain. No matter how tipsy she gets, she can always find her way home. But still, I wouldn’t want to let her go alone, even though she only lives a couple of blocks away.
“Hello, boys,” Cat says as she drops back into her chair. I can already imagine how horrified she’ll be tomorrow when I remind her that she not only hugged the intimidating Dr. Gaybrows but also called him a boy. “I saw you downing some shots over there.”
“I think Ray has a challenge to make me drunk,” Gabrielle says with a faint smile, throwing a quick glance my way.
I blush instantly because, God, he doesn’t know how close he is with that guess.
Cat, of course, laughs out loud. “He’s got a point,” she says, grinning. “Because you, sir, are a much better company when you’ve had ethanol loosen your prefrontal cortex a little bit.”
Gabrielle snorts at that, but he doesn’t seem the least bit offended. He picks up a meat pie from his plate and starts eating, his movements casual, even graceful.
Then I catch Cat’s subtle attempt at nodding toward my phone on the table. I get the hint, pick it up, and as soon as I see what’s written on the screen, my pulse quickens:
Fourth dare: tell him ur gay!!!!!!
Well, shit.