Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vivian
Of course, this was hardly my first time playing “stockroom detective”—Nathan’s system (if you could call it that) provided me with endless hours of hide-and-seek.
And yet, some part of me still held out hope that one day I would open the cabinet and find supplies sorted with an ounce of logic, or at least a nod to the alphabet.
Instead, I’d learned to expect the unexpected: next time, I half-expected to find tongue depressors in the freezer and someone’s lunch in with the bandages.
I was mentally composing a strongly worded note to Nathan’s inner neat freak—assuming he had one—when my phone buzzed in my scrub pocket. I fished it out, the latex gloves box still dangling from my other hand, ready for whatever new surprise the universe (and Nathan) had in store for me today.
Colton: Dinner tonight? Miss you, babe
I stared at the text for a moment before replying.
Me: Sure. What time?
Colton: 7? I’ll pick you up.
Me: Sounds good.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket, fingers lingering on the screen for a heartbeat, as the muted buzz of the stockroom’s overhead fluorescent light pressed against my senses.
The faint chemical tang of disinfectant stung my nose, mingling with the dusty scent of cardboard boxes and latex gloves, grounding me as I forced myself to return to the shelves.
Each movement felt mechanical, belying the growing knot of uncertainty twisting inside me.
Dinner with Colton. It sounded perfectly simple—normal, even.
Good. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a week, the usual excuses piling up: his rotating shifts, my relentless hours.
The idea of reconnecting promised comfort, yet a thin thread of doubt tugged at me.
Would it really feel nice? Or would the silences stretch, weighted by everything we hadn’t said?
I could wear the green dress. The one Quinton had—My thoughts skittered, stumbling against that name like a stone in my shoe. I pressed my lips together, the thrum of the stockroom echoing in my ears, and forced myself to refocus.
The one I bought two weeks ago. The green dress. That was what I meant.
I swallowed, trying to convince myself.
I finished reorganizing the gauze—stacked the IV bags by size, the crinkle of plastic and distant hum of conversation in the hallway underscoring my mounting frustration.
My jaw tightened as I made a mental note to have a blisteringly serious conversation with Nathan about the difference between “organized” and “chaos in physical form.” The task kept my hands busy, though my mind was anything but settled.
When I finally reached reception, the area was deserted—Winnie had vanished, probably the moment her shift ended.
Her absence left the space eerily quiet, the muted glow of sunset spilling through frosted glass and painting the desk in pale gold.
I could almost hear the faint tick of the clock above the door, measuring out the moments of solitude.
Smart woman.
I grabbed my bag from behind the desk, the scratch of zipper teeth and faint aroma of coffee grounds rising from somewhere nearby. I was digging for my keys when the soft tap of footsteps echoed behind me, each one raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Ready?” The word hung in the air, low and steady.
I turned to find Quinton standing there, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, looking annoyingly put-together for someone who’d just worked a full shift in the ER. The sharp scent of his cologne cut through the lingering hospital air, a reminder that he always seemed to have it together.
“Ready for what?” I asked, my voice thinner than I meant.
He blinked. “Thai food? The new place on Chapel Street? We talked about this literally fifteen minutes ago.” His words were light, but the way he studied me—one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together—made the temperature in the room drop by a few degrees.
Oh. Oh no. My heart thudded, echoing louder than the distant sounds of carts rolling down the hallway.
“I—” I started, then stopped, the words slipping away. “I’m so sorry. My boyfriend just texted. He wants to have dinner tonight.” The sentence rang out, brittle and forced, the sterile brightness of the overhead lights making everything feel exposed.
Quinton’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.
The quiet between us grew, punctuated only by the faint click of his bag strap as he shifted it.
“No problem,” he said easily. “We can do Thai another time.” His voice was calm, but I felt something slip away—a chance, maybe, or just the easy camaraderie we’d built.
“Are you sure? Because I feel terrible.” My fingers toyed with my keys, the cold metal biting against my palm.
“Viv.” He smiled, and it looked genuine. “It’s fine. Go have dinner with your boyfriend. I’ll survive.” His words were warm, but I sensed the cool undertone beneath.
“You could still go,” I offered, my voice low—almost apologetic. “Get takeout or something.”
“And eat pad see ew alone in my apartment while watching true crime documentaries?” He shook his head, a rueful smile ghosting his lips.
“That’s a little too ‘emotionally unavailable bachelor’ even for me.
” The echo of his laughter reverberated through the empty reception area, but the space between us only seemed to widen.
I laughed too, but it felt hollow, the sound barely stirring the stale air. As Quinton turned to leave, guilt prickled beneath my skin, settling like a stone in my chest. A flash of disappointment swept through me, heavy and persistent—his easy acceptance made it worse, not better.
“Rain check?” I asked softly, the words barely audible amid the hiss of the air vent.
“Rain check,” he confirmed, his footsteps fading into the corridor. I was about to say something else—some gesture to bridge the gap—when my phone buzzed again, its vibration humming against the wood of the desk.
Colton: Can’t wait to see you tonight, babe. It’s been too long
I looked up, but Quinton was already gone, leaving only the faint echo of his footsteps and the uncomfortable silence behind.
The restaurant Colton chose was nice—almost offensively so.
It radiated a soft, cultivated hush, the sort that made every clink of crystal sound like a minor scandal.
Starched white tablecloths stretched taut over tables, each one crowned with a flickering candle and glassware that caught and fractured the light.
The air was thick with the scent of polished silver, aged wine, and some subtle cologne that felt miles out of my league.
The menu looked like it belonged in a museum, and I half-expected the sommelier to quiz me on the soil composition of the Rh?ne valley.
It was too nice, actually. The kind of place where even laughter felt obliged to lower its voice, and I felt as though I should be sitting up straight, minding my elbows, and folding my napkin with surgical precision. I could feel every eye—or maybe just my own anxiety—pressing on me.
I hated it immediately. My stomach tightened, and I wished I could disappear into the folds of my coat. The scent of polished silver and expensive wine made me feel out of place—as if the whole scene was a performance I hadn’t rehearsed for.
Colton was already there when I walked in, glued to his phone, thumb flicking through glossy images that probably mirrored the room’s perfection. He looked up, offered a smile crafted for photos, and stood to kiss me. His cologne—something sharp and expensive—lingered as he drew back.
“You look amazing,” he said.
“Thanks.” My voice barely registered, muffled by the weight of the room and everything unspoken.
I slipped into the chair, trying not to scrape it against the floor, wishing for the comfort of a booth or, better yet, anonymity.
He sat and dove straight into conversation—or, more accurately, a running monologue.
“So I had the craziest day,” he started, barely pausing for breath.
“I was at the gym this morning. Did I tell you I switched gyms? The old one was basically torture—nothing worked right—and then, out of nowhere, I ran into this guy I used to work with. Total tool. He’s gained like thirty pounds since I last saw him.
Thirty pounds. I was like, dude, what happened? ”
I opened the menu, letting it serve as a shield.
My eyes glazed over at the foreign names and dollar signs.
I half-listened as he recounted his gym drama, my mind drifting, wondering if I should pretend to care or just let the conversation wash over me.
I could already predict the next topic: work, then probably his macros, maybe a humblebrag about his latest PR.
“And then,” Colton continued, oblivious, “I had this meeting with my boss about the new project I’m leading. I told you about that, right? The one where I’m basically running the entire division now?”
“Mm-hmm.” My mouth moved automatically, a reflex I’d perfected after months of these dinners.
I hadn’t heard about it—or maybe I had, and my brain, in an act of self-preservation, had simply tuned it out. Hard to say. Colton’s words circled the room, bouncing softly off the linens and glass but never quite reaching me.
I watched his mouth move and wondered what it would be like if, just once, he asked about my day.
“So my boss is like, ‘Colton, you’re doing amazing work,’ and I’m like, ‘I know.’ Because I am. I’ve been putting in seventy-hour weeks. Seventy hours. Most people can’t handle that kind of workload, but I thrive under pressure.” He grinned, waiting for applause that never came.
The waiter appeared, and the air shifted with relief. At least, for a moment, I could pretend we were just another happy couple, sharing a meal, and not two people orbiting completely separate planets.
Thank God.
“Can I start you off with drinks?” he asked.
“I’ll have a vodka soda,” I said immediately and then thought better. “Make it a double.”
The waiter nodded and looked at Colton.