Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MAKE A WISH
W arm air kisses my skin with each step, easing the post-bad date tension.
In the fifteen minutes since I left a gaping Davis, the interaction has played on repeat.
Moving down the front entrance walkway trimmed in leafy succulents, Davis’s words hiss inside me.
A whoosh of cool air mixed with the scent of disinfectant and lavender greets me as I step through St. Philip Neri’s front doors.
At the front desk, Kerry, the receptionist, peers over a copy of The Duke’s Darling . “Lord James better not die in this duel, Georgia. Someone promised me a happy ending,” she titters.
Kerry is as obsessed with romance novels as I am. She and a few other staff have read my books. Mortification may twinge when they mention my books’ saucy parts, but their support makes the blush worth it. If only everyone in my life was as supportive of my writing.
“Have I ever let you down?” I tease.
“No, but you cut it close when Selena left Owen back in Sugarville.”
“But she came back.” I wink.
“And that epilogue!” She fans herself with the paperback. “Only thing better is that scene in the pond from Shifted Heart .”
I crinkle my nose. “That’s not even between the main characters. That was between Lars and his second in command… All they were doing was sparring.”
“The sexual tension.” She mock-swoons.
“His mate was Ivy, not Victor.”
“Why not both?” She waggles her blonde eyebrows.
With a laugh, I make my way past reception toward the stairs. Most people wouldn’t think popping back into work could be a pick-me-up after a bad date, but it is. The renovated hacienda-style estate turned sub-acute facility has been my happy place for the last five years,.
Not only does the brick building offer a magical whimsy with its courtyard’s Secret Garden aesthetic, but here I am Georgia the Capable.
Besides a few staff, volunteers, and even some patients that try to set me up with single sons, brothers, and someone’s accountant, there’s no arched eyebrow at the decisions I make.
Unlike Davis, with his mouth’s dismissive firm line, or my brothers.
With each step closer to the hospice unit’s main door, the annoyance that wound tight in my body dissolves.
Plucking a mask from the dispenser, I place it on and then squirt sanitizer on my hands before I swipe my badge to enter.
It’s after seven, so the unit is locked down for the night, other than staff and a few stray family members camped out beside loved ones’ beds.
Unlike the rehab unit in the east wing, visitor’s hours here are loosely enforced to allow friends and family ample time to say goodbye.
“Georgia!” Pilar looks up from the computer, amusement sparkles in her amber-colored eyes. “Didn’t think we’d see you tonight.”
Tossing my purse onto the desk at the nurses’ station, I lean against the counter. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“Even for a date?” Pilar’s head tilts.
“Of course.” I bat my long lashes.
“Liar!” Head shaking, she taps at the keyboard. “You’re dedicated, but not that dedicated. Must have been a bad date.”
There’s no getting anything by Pilar Ramirez-Gellar. St. Philip Neri’s chief physician isn’t just an astute doctor, but she can also read people with a single glance. Not to mention, over the last five years of working together she’s heard plenty of my bad date stories.
“I hope this one didn’t get your credit cards.”
“Only my social security card. Is that bad?” I clutch my chest in mock dismay.
“Ha!” She pushes her glasses atop her head. “What was wrong with this one?”
“He spent half the date on his phone and the other half insulting me.”
“He didn’t!” she says, her eyes wide.
“He did.” I cross my arms.
“What did he say?”
I puff out a long breath, the sound reminiscent of spinning helicopter blades. “He belittled my writing. Well, not my writing exactly, but romance as a genre.”
I don’t expect my partner to share my fondness for romance. However, I do expect them to respect it, and by extension, me.
“Was he at least attractive?”
“He’s your typical white boy finance bro—even if he skews undercover hot nerd.” I wave my hands dismissively.
“You do like a hot nerd.”
Heat crawls up my spine. Hot nerds are my thing, at least in real life. My book boyfriends bounce between sexy shapeshifters, boy next doors with filthy mouths in bed, and the dashing Mr. Darcy-types.
But Davis with his glasses. The hint of a muscular body from beneath a short-sleeved button-up shirt.
Hair neat, but not overly styled. A soft, minty eucalyptus scent.
The Star Trek phone case—Next Generation, not the original.
From the superficial assessment of first impressions, a flutter had bloomed in my belly at the sight of Davis.
I’m adult enough to admit that, but the wrapping didn’t match the interior.
“Did you miss the finance bro part?” I motion at her.
“Not every man in finance is a bro. They’re not all Will.”
Gut punch. I almost rear back at the mention of my ex.
It’s been five years and countless bad dates between present day and a time when I wasn’t just me, but one half of Georgia and Will.
Five years since the now fogged-up idea of a happy ending with someone seemed so crystal clear that I could reach out and almost grab it.
“I’m aware they’re not all like Will.” A hard lump chokes my words.
Pilar reaches out and squeezes my forearm. “Sorry I mentioned Will.”
“It’s okay.”
Concern knits her brow. “Is it? With the?—”
“It will be,” I interrupt and force a tight smile.
Like an amulet warding away bad spirits, I cling to that mantra. It’s how I’ve always got through life’s murky waters with my gaze tethered to the shore. Mom is sick. It will be okay. Dad’s not coming. It will be okay. This isn’t what I want. It will be okay.
I clear my throat. “Davis may be attractive, but he’s a jerk, and someone wise once told me not to waste my time on jerks.” I pull a hair tie out of my purse and fingercomb my long hair into a messy bun.
“They sound very wise and extremely beautiful.” She waves her hands and strikes several sassy poses.
“Their intellect and beauty know no boundaries,” I say cheekily.
She crinkles her forehead. “Besides him fitting your hot nerd type—minus the finance bro faux pas—why do you think Jackson selected him for you? Your brother isn’t so vain to use looks as the sole criteria to set you up on a blind date.”
That question had rattled inside me for the entire drive here. What was it about Davis that Jackson thought was a good fit for me? Not to mention, the date with me was a promise. My younger brother thinks I’m so pathetic that he needs to get his coworkers to do him a solid and take me out.
It’s humiliating.
I rub the center of my forehead. “I think he played musical chairs with the single men at work, and Davis lost.”
“Davis is a loser, but that didn’t happen until he showed up for your date and acted a fool.” She taps her shoe against my bare calf. “Don’t forget that, Georgia Lane. You’re the prize.”
A prize nobody wants. I don’t let the negative thought breech my lips.
I won’t allow one man’s rejection to toss me back into that deep well of insecurity.
A well I so recently climbed out of. Even if I’m the one who walked out on Davis, the sting of rejection still twinges inside me.
I had been attracted to him from the start, but his lack of interest was apparent.
“You’re right.” I offer a small smile beneath my mask.
“At least this one didn’t give your dog chocolate.”
“How do these men keep finding me?” I almost whine.
“You gotta kiss a lot of frogs.” Pilar leans back, stretching her slender arms over her head.
“Says the woman that met her wife at sleep-away camp in the tenth grade.” I roll my eyes.
“Perhaps we should explore an adult sleep away camp for you,” she deadpans.
“Sleep away camp wouldn’t be necessary if she’d take me up on my offer,” Henry teases, striding toward us.
“To run off with you,” I sass.
He pats his chest. “My ticker couldn’t handle you, Peach.”
The nickname akin to the perfect cup of tea.
Most of St. Philip Nerri’s—or SPN—volunteers drift in-and-out.
They tend to be students in need of extra credit or resumé padding.
Henry Lincon; however, is part of the facility’s foundation.
This former SPN chief physician retired on a Friday fifteen years ago only to return the following Wednesday as a volunteer, saying his wife told him to get out of her hair.
For thirty-five years, Dr. Lincoln, or Doc as most people call him, hasn’t just been part of SPN’s fabric but the thread that holds it together.
Besides me and Kerry, most of the staff have worked here for ten-plus years.
Within a single shift, ever the bloodhound, he sniffs out who is SPN material.
If, by the end of your first day, Doc bestows a nickname on you, you’re in.
It’s not scientific, but there have been several nurses, one psychologist, and a handful of physical therapists with no nicknames after day one. They only lasted a few months.
“Doc, are you still trying to betroth her to your grandson?” Pilar shakes her head.
“Kenny and Peach would be perfect for each other,” he says, assuredness almost glints in his dark brown pupils.
“You mean the mythical grandson from Canada nobody has ever met.” I bump his shoulder.
Doc, a Black man in his early eighties, has the sturdiness of a strong oak with his tall, broad physique.
Unlike my grandparents, who seemed to wither into wisps of their once healthy selves after retirement, Doc, and his wife, Estelle, maintained an active lifestyle of travel, volunteering, and morning park tai chi classes. They may be in better shape than me.
“Seattle, not Canada, Peach.” His lips pucker. “Well, not anymore. He’s in Irvine now.”