Chapter 32
comfies have a vibe
Hannah - now
Rowan
How about those eggs tho?
Me
9.5 on flavor.
7 on texture.
7.5 on presentation.
Disqualification for deflowering the front left burner on my stove.
…and for making me late to work.
Rowan
What can I say? I like kissing you.
And no worries, next time I’ll use the *gasp* back burner.
Me
ROWAN!
You will do no such thing!
Rowan
Watch me.
“Ms. James, your cheeks’ll break if you keep splitting your face like that.” The familiar voice cuts through the whish of the automatic doors as I enter the reception area of the children’s hospital.
“Dottie,” I croon. “How’s my favorite nurse?”
The middle-aged woman in bubble-gum-pink scrubs has sat vigil behind the desk of the hospital’s main entrance for the past two decades. She gives me a flat stare. “Hot flashes are a bitch, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a bunion, but other than that, I’m peachy.”
We exchange a laugh while I slide my phone into my purse.
“I came to pick up some old property prints for the fundraiser. Mr. Whitley said he’d leave them here for me.”
Dottie lifts a finger, pushing back from the desk. “That he did. Let me grab those for you.”
“Actually, Dottie,” a voice calls from behind me, “hold on a sec.”
I spin on my heel to see the chairman of the board coming down the corridor. “Mr. Whitley, good to see you.”
He smiles. “You too, dear. I’d like to steal you away for a chat if you’ve got time.”
“Sure thing.” I tell Dottie I’ll grab the prints on my way out and turn back to the chairman.
“Walk with me,” he says.
En route to the cafeteria, we stroll through a hall of triage bays situated at the emergency entrance.
“You remember when we got those?” he asks, pointing to two private bays at the back.
From the outside, the rooms look standard, but inside they’re outfitted with flat screen televisions mounted in the ceiling and saltwater fish tanks in the walls for the youngest patients who need a distraction while they’re getting stitched up.
“I believe that was from the funds raised in the gala’s inaugural year.” If you could call a silent auction held in the fellowship hall of a local church a gala, then yeah, it was a gala. The fifty guests in attendance brought in a modest ten thousand dollars in donations.
“That’s right,” he confirms.
We pass a few nurse stations, cross through a set of hydraulic doors, and turn down another long corridor. At a hallway intersection, we pause to let a team of doctors pass.
“And this?” he asks, gesturing to a room on my left. A hospital staffer wheels a young boy inside where I spot a CT scanner.
Year five. Our first black-tie event with over two hundred guests. And the first time we crossed the six-figure threshold in funds raised.
“I believe that was our fifth year, sir.”
His side eye meets mine. “You’d be right. The money you brought in for us finally put us over the mark to upgrade our CT technology.”
“It’s not me, Mr. Whitley. It’s everyone. You all, the people at Hawkley. It’s a team effort, truly.”
Mr. Whitley says nothing as he motions for me to go on ahead.
After meandering several twists and turns through the hospital, he finally speaks again. “Do you know what else the money you’ve raised for us has made possible?”
The chairman’s attributing the funds to my efforts, while kind, is a far cry from the reality of executing such a large event every twelve months.
I could never do it alone. Yes, I spearhead the whole thing, and it was my idea when I pitched it to them the first year, but I don’t do it for the glory or recognition.
He continues before I can respond. “Every hospital room now has double-sized sleeper sofas for parents so families can remain together.” It seems like such a trivial thing, but the nights Mom and I spent here with Maddy—her on the single sleeper chair, me curled up in the hospital bed beside my best friend—were rough.
The extra sleeping accommodations would have come in handy back then.
Mr. Whitley goes on. “Bud, the service dog, and his handler are now full-time BCH staff.”
I chuckle softly. Years ago, the Golden Retriever started as an occasional visitor for holidays and special occasions. Admittedly, I didn’t know he and his owner had been hired on full time, but the thought of them roaming these halls daily bringing joy to the kids makes me happy.
“But this,” he says, stopping at the entrance to the oncology wing. “This is our next mission.”
He motions to the wall behind me. A large architectural rendering hangs underneath a placard that reads: We’re Growing.
A knot forms in my chest as I take in the display.
“We wanna double it, Hannah. Everything. Equipment, technology, hospital rooms, staff, you name it. And we want to offer financial assistance to families without insurance.”
I work my jaw to fight the tears welling in my eyes.
Mr. Whitley points farther down the wall to another rendering beneath a similar placard that says: We’re Expanding.
“And this,” he says yet again, my heart barely able to keep up.
“This is our plan to build a collection of pediatric urgent care clinics across the state. And we want your help to make it all happen.”
For so many, hospitals are synonymous with sadness and loss—Mom and I certainly have felt that. But this place does so much good, too. I love it here. The mission, the heart, the people.
“We’ll do everything in our power to raise as much money as possible, sir. You have my word.”
He meets my eyes. Mouth quirked slightly, he says, “Let’s talk.”
Once we get settled in the cafeteria, my stomach rumbles with nerves. The chairman takes the seat opposite me and slides a red Jello container across the table, keeping another for himself. Together, we peel back our foil lids.
“You’ve got me a little on edge here, Mr. Whitley.”
“I think knowing each other for all these years puts us on a first name basis, yeah? Call me Adam, please.”
I nod agreeably as I scoop up a bite.
Adam finishes his Jello in two spoonfuls and leans back in his chair.
“Here’s the deal, Hannah. The board has convened and we’ve decided to add a new staff position effective January first.” My spoon slows to a crawl as I pull it from my mouth.
“Chief Philanthropy Officer. Full time. Responsible for managing all of our fundraising efforts of which we want to multiply and maximize every year going forward.”
He pauses, regarding me with a shrewd expression.
Screw that I’m only twenty-eight and any title beginning with the word Chief may seem like wishful thinking. I can do this job. I want this job. The thought spills out of me before I can conjure a more professional response. “I want it.”
The man smirks. “Good. Because we want you.”
My mind spins with the prospect of a career change the whole drive home.
Jumping from public relations to philanthropy isn’t a crazy notion, they carry many similarities.
But I’m more allured by all the ways it would be different than what I do now.
No more arrogant CEOs who think they’re untouchable or lengthy email chains with entitled social media influencers.
I could put that behind me and dedicate my career to the good and beautiful things happening at BCH.
My thoughts are interrupted by an incoming message from Kristen through my car’s Bluetooth.
Kristen
Where was my office bestie when I needed a good block walk today?
I pull into my driveway, smiling when I spot Rowan’s truck on the curb.
Me
Sorry, friend. I was running gala errands all day.
Block walk first thing tomorrow?
Kristen
Fine.
Since I didn’t hear from you last night, I’m assuming you slept okay?
Waking up in the cocoon of Rowan’s arms this morning was the most clear-headed I’ve felt in days.
Kristen
Or you found somebody else to warm your bed. Like…maybe a tattooed American hero?
Me
A girl doesn’t cuddle and tell.
Kristen
Riiiiiiiigghhtt
See you tomorrow. Don’t forget the tea.
I climb out of my car and head down the path toward my front porch.
Halfway there I stop, sensing something is off.
Dead on my feet, I look around for what’s different.
My flower beds look untouched, as do the planters flanking the garage.
The lawn remains freshly mowed from Saturday, but there’s a distinct smell of cut grass in the air.
It’s several seconds before I notice it.
My eyes catch on the spot where the pavement meets the lawn, the meticulous edges cutting in against the concrete. I don’t pay my precious fourteen-year-old landscaping Boy Scout to edge my yard.
I’m left to assume Rowan found my spare key under the mat, let himself in, and decided to…edge my lawn?
Yep, that’s exactly what he’s doing when I find him in my backyard. Shirtless. Muscled. Sweaty. Backward hat. Running a weed eater along my fence line.
I enjoy the view for minutes longer than what’s considered appropriate before he finally notices my presence. He flashes a white-toothed smile framed by a scruffed jaw and two perfectly placed dimples as he powers down the weed whacker and sets it aside.
He struts toward me on the patio, removing his AirPods. First thing’s first, he dips low for a quick kiss. The heady scent of sweat and summer invades my senses, and I want to get lost in it—maybe lick it off his chiseled abs like a popsicle.
“I see you let yourself in,” I say.
His face pinches in confusion. “No, actually I haven’t been inside. I noticed your yard needed to be edged when I left this morning so I came back with Pops’ Weed Eater about an hour ago.”
“Oh, I figured you found the key under the mat.”
Rowan laughs but it sounds more exasperated than funny. “First of all, I wouldn’t just ‘let myself in’ to your place without your permission, and second of all, you absolutely cannot keep your spare key under your welcome mat. Please tell me you’re joking.”
Poor guy’s eyes drift closed and he pinches the bridge of his nose like he can will what I say next not to be true.
“No can do, Sergeant.”
A long-suffering sigh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sunshine.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. His grandfather was the first person to call me by that nickname. I think it’d make Norm’s heart happy to know his grandson uses it too.
“Yeah, but what a way to go. Am I right?”
Blue eyes darken as his gaze sweeps over me in my charcoal pencil skirt, matching blazer, and stilettos. “Go inside and change into your comfies. We’ll order food when I’m done.”
“Comfies and takeout?” I repeat, excitement brewing. “Are we having a slumber party?”
Rowan snorts a laugh. “Go. Inside.”
Ignoring his demand, I wave a hand over his bare chest. “Are these your comfies? Because I wanna make sure I match your energy.”
His brows flatten. “Pajamas, Hannah.”
“Right, but like the half-naked kind or the my heater’s broken and it’s Antarctica outside kind?”
One AirPod goes in as he stares at me through heavy lashes. “How about the tiny sleep shorts that show off those legs and my sweatshirt up top?” He finishes with a smirk and a wink.
I give him a salute. “You got it, soldier.”