Chapter 3
There’s almost nothing better in this world than taking a scalding shower after finishing a twelve-hour shift in the emergency room.
Showering after a long day working on a ranch, covered in dust and dirt, may come close, but this is still better.
My feet ache and I got sprayed in the face with blood when helping a coworker who blew out someone’s vein while placing an IV.
So while any post-shift shower is lovely, this one is heavenly.
Reluctantly, I shut the water off and step out of the shower, wrapping a thick white towel around my waist. The towels in the cabin I’m renting are glorious.
Honestly, everything here is nice. I know other travel nurses who like to bring their own things to the rentals they stay in, but I’ve never been one for extra stuff.
All my belongings can fit in two suitcases, and that’s the way I like it.
Steam billows from the bathroom when I open the door, escaping up toward the high ceilings of the cabin.
The wood floors are chilly beneath my bare feet.
The storms that blew through the last few days brought a cold front with them, and I had to break out a jacket to wear to work today.
My last assignment was in Florida, and I was more than ready for some autumn weather.
I just finished up four days of night shifts and have three days off before I work again, which means I need coffee to make it through the day to get on a normal schedule. I may not take much with me from place to place, but I never go anywhere without my trusty moka pot.
I’ve just finished filling up the canister with some local coffee grounds I bought in town yesterday when I hear a noise on the porch.
Something loud, heavy. The woods are dense around the cabin, trees blocking out the view in front of the house, and a steep cliff jutting off the back, exposing miles and miles of mountain views beyond.
It’s probably a bear. The landlord told me to watch out for them and left detailed instructions on how to dispose of my trash so it doesn’t attract them. I tiptoe toward the door, wanting to get a look out the window beside it. I’m just a few feet away when the lock beeps and the door handle turns.
I freeze, my heart leaping in my chest. Adrenaline courses through me, and at the last second I realize I’m still holding the handle to my moka pot, and I brandish it as a weapon as the door swings open.
It’s not a bear, I realize belatedly, the moka pot held over my head.
It’s a woman.
A familiar woman. Long, long dark brown hair.
Toned legs that go on for days. Eyes a shade of hazel I’ve only found in nature.
She’s tall—taller than I realized when she was lying in a hospital bed two nights ago—only a couple inches shorter than me.
She looks considerably better than she had that night, but just as tired, if not more.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice harsher than I intended, but I’m caught off guard.
As caught off guard as I was two nights ago in the hospital.
My first week on the job and I had found myself wanting to stay in that room talking to her.
I’d let my professionalism slip, completely forgotten about my other patients until an alarm went off in the room next door and snapped me back to attention.
She doesn't seem to notice my tone. Her eyes are fixed squarely on my chest. And then lower, to where my towel is wrapped around my waist. “What are you doing here, naked and wet?”
I had forgotten what her voice sounds like, smoky and deep. It had been the thing to pull me in that night. That, and the way she seemed to calm the second we were alone in her room, when it got quiet. The same way I always do.
Her gaze flicks back up to the moka pot suspended above my head, and I drop my arm belatedly. “I’m not naked.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to clarify that particular point right now, but it’s an important distinction.
“You look pretty naked to me,” she says, pointedly staring at the towel barely covering me.
I use my free hand to cinch it tighter. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.” She is relentless. It’s making my brain fuzzy, and it takes me a minute to remember what she asked.
“I was showering.”
She blinks at me slowly. “I was assuming the cabin had been turned into a modeling set.” Her tone is dry as desert air. “Why are you showering here, Jack?”
I’m temporarily transfixed by the way she says my name. I didn’t think she would remember it. Our interaction at the hospital wasn’t long, and I had only introduced myself the one time. Sure, I remembered her name, but that was my job.
“I live here,” I finally say when I realize the silence has stretched on too long.
“No, you don’t.”
I stare at her for a long moment. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“This is my best friend’s cabin,” she responds. “Wren Blankenship.”
“I’m renting it from her. For ten weeks.
” When my recruiter, Amy, emailed to say she had a contact available in a small mountain town in North Carolina for the fall, I was quick to jump on it.
I was ready to move on from the heat and the crowds in Miami and go someplace slower.
So far, Fontana Ridge has been exactly what I needed.
“You’re renting it from her?” The way she emphasizes the word makes a pit form in my stomach. I have a feeling something is very, very wrong here.
I answer slowly. “Yes.” And then, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
And she still doesn’t. “I need to call Wren.” She spins around, heading back out onto the porch, the cool evening air whipping her hair off her slender neck.
I follow her out onto the porch, goosebumps pricking on my wet skin. “Why?”
Stevie looks at me over her shoulder, surprise coloring her features, like she hadn’t heard me come out behind her, and I instantly feel bad. I’m a naked man following her around.
I’m not naked. Damn it, she’s getting in my head.
She ignores me, clicking on Wren’s contact on her phone. I can hear it ringing, the sound filling the space between us. It goes on and on before switching to a chipper voicemail message. Stevie sighs, hanging up and calling someone else named Holden. This call goes directly to voicemail.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. She grips the porch rail tightly before turning to face me.
Her brow is furrowed and there are dark circles beneath her eyes. A small scratch on her temple from the other night. It clicks into place, and I gentle my voice before asking, “Are you feeling confused?”
She blinks at me, expression clearing. “What?”
“Confusion can be a symptom of concussions.”
Her eyes fall shut, chest rising in a deep breath. “I’m not confused. Just screwed.” She meets my gaze again, resigned. “My Airstream isn’t livable right now, and Wren told me I could stay here.”
It takes a minute for the words to process. “Oh.”
She nods. “She said the renter canceled, so the cabin was available.”
I palm the back of my neck as the pieces slot into place in my mind.
“Yeah, I found a place closer to the hospital and canceled this booking, but then that one fell through and I booked this place again.” Guilt settles in my stomach like lead when I see her expression fall.
“Do you…” my voice trails off. “Do you have someplace else to stay?”
She meets my gaze again. There’s a smile on her face that looks forced. “I’ll figure it out.”
A gust of wind whips up the porch and I cross my arms to do my best to block it. The way she avoided the question burrows beneath my skin. “So, no?”
“It’s fine,” she says, and the weight in my stomach sinks lower.
“Stevie, do you have someplace to go?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” She pushes off the porch rail. “Sorry for the intrusion. If you’re going to call the cops because I walked into your house while you were naked, will you at least give me a ten-minute head start?”
I see the diversion for what it is, but I don’t know this woman, and she’s made it clear she has it covered, so I ignore my instincts and let it go. “Five.”
Her lips curl in what looks like a more genuine smile, despite the circumstances, and I feel pleased to at least have done that. “You drive a hard bargain, John.”
“Jack,” I remind her, even though she remembered earlier.
“I’ve heard concussions can cause confusion.” She turns to head back down the porch to her truck that’s parked on the dirt driveway. “Sorry again, and thanks for helping me out the other night.”
“Do you really have somewhere to go?” I ask as she takes her first step down. I’m not sure why I’m pushing.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she says, sparing one last glance in my direction. “Eight minutes.”
“Seven,” I retort, even though I don’t really feel like joking, not with the guilt eating at me as I send off a concussed woman into the cold.
“Goodnight, James. I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she says before hopping in her truck, the sound of her door shutting behind her echoing through the trees.