Chapter 3 – Jensen #2
“It's one drink. No brows raised. We'll stick to the private parts of the bar so that no one sees us.”
“No.”
“Next door then? No one’s over there. They're all asleep getting ready for tomorrow’s flight.”
She folds her arms. “May I ask what you’re trying to accomplish here, Jensen? You're awfully pushy.”
I exhale, jaw ticking. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic. And frankly, I'm not sure if I understand what pulled me over here to talk to her either.
Did I want to talk to the surgeon who saved my life?
Yes. I think.
Was I trying to avoid going back to my hotel room where I’ll lie on my back alone staring at the ceiling while the static in my head tries to swallow me whole until Noa texts our team’s chat and tells us to ‘wake our asses up so that we don’t miss our flight to Denver!’
Also, yes.
I'm lonely and bored, yeah. But I'm also curious. No one just up and quits their job as a heart surgeon to work for a rodeo. It sounds too much like a country song.
“It’s just a drink. I…”
Shit. What would convince her that it really is just a drink? It's not like I want to sleep with the woman. She's kind of scary, not at all easy to talk to. Seems like she'd be a real tough fuck if I were thinking about that. But I’m not. I’m totally not.
And yeah, she's attractive. Beautiful, the more I stare into her eyes without the face mask and tight bun. But sex isn’t even a thought on my mind right now.
“I have a question for you. About an injury,” I blurt out. “That’s why I want to have a drink.”
Her brows lift sharply. “You’re injured? That wasn’t in the last doctor’s notes that he left.”
Of course it wasn’t. Of course, she’s already memorized the last doctor’s files after being on the job for—what—a few days total?
“It’s my shoulder,” I say with a casual shrug I immediately regret because her brows just keep raising higher. I’m not downplaying this like I wanted to. She isn’t going to let this go now. “Just tweaked it a bit. Nothing important enough to write down anyway.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “So, you want to have a drink with me, in private, to talk about your injury?”
“Yes.”
She exhales through her nose, unhooks her arms from where they’d been crossed tight over her chest.
“Fine. One drink. Next door. Let’s go.”
Catalina takes off through the crowded restaurant like she’s trained for urban obstacle courses, weaving between servers and chairs with surgical precision. I’m jogging just to keep up with her.
“Damn, Doc. Do you always walk this fast?” I ask as the heat from the Austin night air presses against us when we reach the outside of the hotel.
“I trained myself to walk fast when I was in residency.” She says it like she’s answering the time of day—flat, matter of fact, cutting right through me. There's zero humor or playfulness in her response.
Have I always liked straightforward women? I'm not sure. But I sure as hell like it now. Maybe it's because I know exactly where I stand with Catalina. There are no games. No mixed signals. She's unapologetically herself, even when it comes off a little brusque.
It's exhausting being around women who expect you to read their minds. With Catalina, there's no guessing. I know exactly what she wants: to do her job, keep her head down, and stay as far away from me as possible.
Which, unfortunately for her, only makes me want to be around her more.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as she heads toward the bar next door. Cute nose. Full lips that look capable of driving a man completely insane. Not a trace of makeup. Doesn't need it.
Her dark hair has fallen into soft curls that brush her shoulders, loose and inviting. I shouldn't be thinking about what they'd feel like wrapped around my wrist, but my mind seems determined to do whatever the hell it wants tonight.
My eyes lower and that’s when they snag on the curve of her ass.
Thick. No other way to explain it. If she weren’t the surgeon who had her hands in my chest and a woman who’s acting like she hates my existence and wishes she hadn't saved me, I’d be thinking about how good it’d feel to palm her wide hips.
My gaze moves to her hands. That’s where my footsteps falter.
Small, tense fists at her sides, like she’s bracing for impact or preparing for a fight.
I know those hands. Those hands save lives.
Those hands were covered by sterile gloves the last time that I saw them.
Her fingers are long and slender. And they look soft as silk.
She pushes through the door of the bar, some upscale fancy place that we probably have no business being in dressed like this, but Catalina doesn't seem to notice the dress code or care, and beelines for the bar counter, claiming a stool and motioning sharply to the one beside it before I’ve even entered the place.
“Sit. Now, what’s the problem with your shoulder?” she asks.
“Damn,” I chuckle as I drop into the chair. “Can’t even get a warm-up question?”
“No.”
I smile at her and lean an elbow on the bar. “How are you doing tonight?”
“I’m not here for small talk.”
I lean back a little, assessing her. “Are you uncomfortable?”
She lets out a laugh. It's dry and humorless, and so honest it startles me. “Of course I’m uncomfortable with this.”
That has me pausing. I don’t make women uncomfortable. Ever. Usually, I make them way too comfortable. Comfortable enough that they want to follow me from city to city, series to series, hoping something will stick. It never does, but they sure like to try.
Most women on the circuit want the version of me that they see in the arena.
The guy who wins the buckles, the friendly smile, the name on the back of the vest. Catalina looks at me like she’s already seen all that and doesn’t find it impressive.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever found anything more attractive.
I’m a nice guy. I’d consider myself a good guy. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable around me.
“Why?” I ask. “Is it me?”
Her stare is blade sharp. “Of course it’s you. Who else could it be?”
“What did I do?”
Before she can answer, the bartender stops in front of us. “What can I get you two to drink?”
I don’t look away from Catalina. She doesn’t look away from me. She’s glaring and I’m staring. Memorizing the shape of her eyes and those dark lashes that frame them. How can someone be this smart, gifted, and beautiful, but also so mad?
“Water for me,” I say without looking away from her face.
Her eyes narrow further. “Glass of red. Whatever you have is fine, just not the cheapest.”
“Okay,” the bartender murmurs awkwardly before walking off.
“So, you’re having two glasses tonight? That’s not going to mess up your heart health?”
She scoffs. “I’m not the one who should be worrying about heart health.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s your problem?” I ask, growing annoyed.
“My problem,” she says coolly, “is you.”
I reel back a little. “What the hell did I do to you besides have a congenital heart defect I didn’t even know about until I was in my thirties, laid out on your table, struggling to breathe?”
She scoffs. “You think that’s my problem with you?”
“Yeah,” I snap, folding my arms across my chest. “Because I can’t think of any other damn reason for you acting like you’ve got a stick shoved up your ass from the moment you realized you’d be working with me.”
Her jaw tightens. “That’s a highly offensive and immature comment, and you’d know that if you paused and thought about your words before speaking.”
“Well, pardon my fucking French. I don’t talk all proper like you, Doc. But it’s true. I just fucking met you and you’re acting like we were enemies in a past life that I didn’t even live.”
“We didn't just meet. You met me months ago,” she fires back.
“When I was high on the painkillers that you gave me since I was lying there with a fresh scar across my chest.”
“You’re welcome for that, by the way.”