Chapter 32
LAINE
"Reid Garrison, if you take one more bite of my French toast, I'm going to stab you with this fork."
"It's just sitting there," he says, already reaching across my kitchen table with his own fork. "You're not eating it."
I slap his hand away, laughing. "I'm savoring it. There's a difference."
"You cut it into tiny pieces and then stare at them. That's not savoring, that's hoarding."
"I am not hoarding my breakfast."
"Then you won't mind sharing." His fork darts toward my plate again.
I grab his wrist. "Touch my food and die."
"Wow. Violent. I like this side of you."
Reid's grinning at me across the table, hair still messy from sleep, wearing the same t-shirt he had on yesterday.
Four months in and I'm still not used to how good he looks first thing in the morning.
How easy this is. Saturday morning, nowhere to be, fighting over French toast like it's the most important thing in the world.
I kind of love that it feels like the most important thing in the world.
"I made you your own stack," I point out, gesturing to his empty plate. "A bigger stack, actually."
"I was hungrier than I thought."
"You're always hungrier than you think. It's like you have a bottomless pit for a stomach."
"Growing boy," Reid says solemnly, then lunges for my French toast again.
This time I'm ready. I grab my plate and hold it away from him, laughing as he tries to reach around me.
"Come on," he wheedles, stretching across the table. "Just one bite."
"Get your own."
"There's no more batter."
"Should have thought of that before you inhaled yours like a vacuum cleaner."
Reid stands and starts walking around the table toward me. That predatory smile on his face that means he's not giving up. That means I'm about to lose this battle and enjoy every second of it.
"Reid," I warn, clutching my plate to my chest. "I mean it."
"I just want a tiny piece. You won't even miss it."
"No way. This is my favorite part." I wave my fork at him. "The corner piece with all the syrup."
"Perfect. I love syrup."
I scramble out of my chair, plate in hand, backing toward the living room. "Stay back. I'm armed and dangerous."
"You're holding a fork and wearing my t-shirt. You're about as threatening as a kitten."
"This kitten has claws."
He feints left, then goes right, trying to corner me near the couch. I dodge away, laughing so hard I can barely breathe. This is ridiculous. We're ridiculous. I've never been this ridiculous with anyone in my life.
I've never wanted to be.
"This is insane," I gasp. "We're adults."
"Adults can't have fun?"
"Adults remember to buy eggs when they're at the store."
"Hey, that wasn't my fault. Someone started kissing me in the dairy aisle."
Heat creeps up my neck. I did do that. I couldn't help it—he was standing there all rumpled and earnest, reading the protein content on yogurt cups like it mattered, and I just had to kiss him.
"You kissed me back."
"Because my girlfriend was being irresistible near the yogurt." He's grinning now, and I can tell he's remembering it too. "Not my fault we both forgot about eggs."
"We got everything else," I point out.
"Everything except the one ingredient we actually needed."
"Details."
I'm backed against the kitchen counter now. Nowhere left to go. Reid's coming at me with that look, the one that says he's getting my French toast whether I like it or not.
"Last chance," he says. "Share nicely, or I'll have to take drastic measures."
"Oh. No. I am so terrified."
He growls, leaning down to nip at my neck, just below my ear. I gasp, and the plate nearly slips out of my hands. His lips are warm, and his breath hits my skin and everything in me goes quiet.
"That's not fair," I manage.
"All's fair in love and breakfast food." His mouth moves to that spot on my collarbone.
The one he found two weeks ago. The one that turns me into a completely useless human being.
I shiver, and my free hand lands on his shoulder because I need something solid or I'm going to slide right off this counter.
"Reid..." It comes out a mix of a gasp and a moan.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are darker now. "Still not sharing?"
I set the plate on the counter behind me. I don't even think about it. My hands need to be on him.
His hands find my waist immediately, pulling me in. He's warm and solid and he smells like sleep and maple syrup, and I want to drag him back to bed and forget breakfast exists.
"Victory," he murmurs, but he doesn't reach for the French toast. He's too busy pressing kisses along my jaw. "You're beautiful when you laugh like that."
"You're terrible."
"But you love me anyway."
Yeah. I really do. "I must be crazy."
He leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet. When we break apart, we both have big dumb smiles on our faces. Look at us, two sappy, totally in love.
"So about that French toast..." he says hopefully.
I cut off a piece of the corner—the best piece, with all the syrup—and hold it out to him on my fork. "Here, you big baby."
Reid opens his mouth and lets me feed it to him, making a sound of satisfaction that's borderline indecent.
"Happy now?"
"Mmm. So happy." His arms are still around me, I'm still pressed between him and the counter, and I couldn't be happier. "Thank you for sharing."
"You didn't leave me much choice."
His hands are warm on my waist, and I'm already thinking about dragging him back to bed. We have nowhere to be. Nothing to do. Just a lazy Saturday stretching out ahead of us, full of possibilities and—
My phone starts ringing.
The sound cuts through everything. I glance over at where I left it on the counter, and my stomach drops.
Dr. Parker.
"You should get that," Reid says, noticing the change in my expression.
Should I?
Dr. Parker and I worked together in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. Eighteen-hour days in a makeshift clinic, working miracles with limited supplies and sheer determination. He's brilliant, dedicated—the kind of doctor who goes where he's needed most. We haven't spoken in more than a year.
If he's calling on a Saturday morning, it's not to chat about the weather.
"It's probably work related," I say, not moving to answer.
The ringing stops. Good. Maybe he'll—
It starts again immediately.
Reid's eyebrows go up. "Must be important."
Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of.
I reach for the phone. "Dr. Parker. How are you?"
"Laine! God, it's good to hear your voice." His voice is warm, familiar, and suddenly I'm back in that clinic—sweat and adrenaline and the satisfaction of doing something that mattered. "I heard through the grapevine that you've settled in Oregon. How's that treating you?"
"Really well, actually. I love it here." The words come out automatically, but they're true. I do love it here. I love Reid's hands still resting on my waist, love the smell of maple syrup and coffee in my kitchen, love that we have nowhere to be except right here.
"That's wonderful. You sound happy."
"I am happy."
More than happy. Content in a way I've never been.
"Right. Well, I have an opportunity I think you'd be interested in," Dr. Parker continues, and there it is.
The reason for the Saturday morning call.
"I've secured funding to build a clinic in rural Honduras.
Three-year commitment, full autonomy to develop programs, train local staff.
It's exactly the kind of work you were born for, Laine. "
Three years. Honduras. Building something from scratch.
My throat gets tight. I should say something polite and noncommittal. I should tell him I'm flattered but not interested.
"Tell me more," I say instead.
Reid's smile fades. His hands slide off my waist.
"The community has about two thousand people, but the nearest hospital is four hours away on roads that wash out during rainy season. We'd be starting from scratch—building the clinic, establishing protocols, creating sustainable care systems."
My pulse picks up. Starting from scratch. That's what I'm good at—walking into chaos and creating order. Taking nothing and building a legacy.
Reid takes a step back. Leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed.
Don't look at me like that. I turn away slightly, focusing on Dr. Parker's voice.
"We'd want you to help design the training programs for local nurses, and oversee implementation.
You'd have complete creative control over how we approach community health education.
" His voice gets excited. "Laine, this is the chance to build something that will outlast us.
Something that will save lives for generations. "
What I have here matters too. I glance at Reid. He's staring at the floor now. His jaw is tight.
I should have let it go to voicemail.
"It sounds amazing," I say, because it does. Even if I wish it didn't.
"I've got funding locked in for three years, possibility of extension depending on results. Full salary, housing provided, travel expenses covered." He pauses. "You're the first person I thought of for this. You've got the experience, the language skills, and the heart for this kind of work."
The first person he thought of. Because I'm good at this. Because I've proven I can handle it.
Reid's still not looking at me. His shoulders are tense, his arms wrapped tight around himself.
This isn't how this morning was supposed to go.
"When would this start?" I ask, even though part of me doesn't want to know.
"That's the thing—we need to move quickly. I'd need an answer within the next week, and we'd want you there in six weeks to start site preparation."
Six weeks. My chest tightens. Six weeks to pack up and leave everything I've built here. A week to decide.
"I know it's sudden," Dr. Parker continues, "but opportunities like this don't come along often. Think about the impact we could have, Laine. Think about the lives we could save."
Lives we could save. Real, measurable impact in a place that desperately needs it.