9. Lance
Lance
George’s kitchen smells like cumin and lime the second I walk in, which is about right for a man who grew up on his abuela’s cooking and knows his way around fire.
The space is small, set up for one person to work without getting in the way, or two if they can manage each other.
There’s a pot going on the back burner, with the ingredients laid out across the counter, showing how organized he is in his own kitchen.
“You can’t chop with that hand,” I point out, nodding at the splint.
“That’s why you’re here,” he says, without looking up from whatever he’s stirring. “You’re here to be more useful.” He nudges a cutting board toward me across the counter, along with bell peppers and an onion. “Small dice on the peppers. Thin slices on the onion.”
“You’re bossy in your own kitchen.”
“You want to eat or not?”
I pick up the knife and turn it in my hand like that’s going to help. I make the first cut, then another, already aware I’m fucking it up.
We had a family chef, likely from a long line of cooks who worked for political households and old-money circles, and my mother’s idea of cooking was mostly giving directions and leaving the rest to them.
Standing here looking incompetent in front of this man in particular feels embarrassing as hell.
George watches for about a minute or two before he exhales. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting.”
“That’s not cutting. You’re murdering a vegetable.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. “It’s not exactly something I’ve had practice with.”
George regards me. His expression eventually eases, the tension leaving his brow as understanding comes through. The sharpness from before is gone, replaced with something warmer.
He steps in behind me before I can argue.
His firm chest presses flush against my back, the faint scent of his soap and the simmering spices wrapping around me.
Even with the splint on his injured hand, he reaches around carefully, his good arm sliding along mine as he takes the knife and repositions my fingers with surprising gentleness.
“Hold it like this,” he says, low and intimate, right by my ear.
His splinted hand rests lightly against the back of mine for support, while his uninjured fingers guide me in holding the bell pepper.
The contrast of his rough, capable touch against my skin sends heat low in my stomach.
“Knuckles forward so you don’t slice your damn hand open. ”
“Yeah,” I manage, barely above a whisper. “I know what a bad cut looks like.” But all I can focus on is the way his body molds perfectly against mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and how safe—how right—it feels to be surrounded by him.
“Good. Don’t make one on my watch.”
His warm and protective hand stays over mine a moment longer than necessary, as he moves the blade with me in one clean, controlled stroke. “You don’t force it. Let the knife do the work.”
“Right,” I breathe, heart hammering. Every point of contact feels electric—his chest to my back, his thighs brushing the backs of mine.
“Again.”
I follow his lead, slower this time. The cut comes out cleaner, but I’m barely paying attention to the pepper anymore. I’m very much aware of him—the strength in his injured but still-supportive hold, the way he’s breathing me in just as much as I’m drowning in him.
“There you go,” he murmurs, like his body isn’t still pressed tight behind me. His hand lingers, thumb brushing softly over my knuckle, before he finally pulls away like nothing happened.
I keep chopping, but my skin buzzes everywhere he touched me. My brain is frantically trying to categorize every point of contact as “Totally Normal And Not Remotely Charged,” but it’s doing an absolutely shit job of selling the lie.
“Pass me the garlic,” George says. He adds it to the pot and the smell intensifies, rich and savory.
I’m chopping more peppers and trying not to think about how well we fit together in this small space.
I have to say, objectively, that men who can actually cook are stupidly hot.
Yes, that includes me now, even if I’m only on knife duty.
“You realize you’re incredibly husband material, right?” I tell him.
“Fuck off,” George says, but he’s grinning.
“I’m serious. Look at you. Cooking, cleaning, caring for the people around you like it’s a natural thing to do.”
“I’m not that domestic.”
“You just fixed my car, with all fix-the-leak, patch-the-roof, save-the-day energy.” I bump my hip against his, a playful nudge I used to do a lot of times before but somehow now feels like it burns through my jeans. “Face it, you’re a nurturer. It’s embarrassing how good you are at it.”
George stills for a while. Something dark flashes across his face before he recovers. His eyes drop to the exact spot where my hip just hit his, then drift lower.
“Shut up,” he says finally, looking up, and that’s when he realizes I’ve been watching him the whole time.
Neither of us moves.
I know he was just staring at my ass, he knows I caught him, and neither of us says a word.
“Onions are done,” I mutter. Lamest line ever.
“Good. Put them in.”
Ten minutes later, we’re at his small kitchen table with bowls of chicken pozole. Our knees bump under the table. I take a bite and it’s so good I actually groan out loud. It’s mortifying, but I can’t help it. The stuff is fucking incredible.
“Good?” George asks, watching me like he’s trying not to smile.
“So good,” I say, already going back in for another bite. “Marry me. I want this every day.”
“No. You only want me for my cooking.”
“And your mechanical skills.” I grin at him across the table, still chewing in a way that would horrify my mother. “And your truck.”
George lets out a loud coughing sound, striking his chest with his good fist, face going red.
“Slow down,” I say, pushing a glass of water toward him. “I’m not going to fucking eat it all.”
He drinks, coughs again, and squints at me with watering eyes. “Did you just say cock?”
“TRUCK.” I nearly send broth across the table. “I said truck. Jesus Christ, George, I said truck.” I grab the kitchen towel and press it to my face while he gets himself together.
We’re looking at each other across the table, his eyes steady on mine, and the moment stretches past where it should end. I can see the scar through his left brow from here, the line of his beard along his jaw, the way he’s gone completely still. I don’t look away. I don’t want to.
George looks down first. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, automatically.
His eyes come back to mine fast.
We finish the pozole in silence that has too much in it.
I’ve been on since seven this morning. Three traumas, one cardiac arrest we somehow dragged back from the brink, and a steady rotation of respiratory cases that all decided today was the day.
My feet feel fused to the inside of my shoes. My shoulders ache from twelve straight hours of leaning over beds, gurneys, and people actively trying to die on me.
By the time the shift from hell finally spits me out, I spend a full minute in the locker room staring at my phone and seriously considering texting George.
Thinking of texting him with nothing dramatic, something lame like a meme, a complaint, or a “you alive?” kind of text. Anything that gets me out of my own head for five minutes.
I decide against it.
That road feels a little too direct tonight, and I’m tired enough to know I won’t steer it responsibly once I’m on it.
“Don’t even think about disappearing,” Charlie says from across the locker room, already halfway changed. “You’re coming out.”
“I’m thinking about my couch,” I tell her. “And complete silence.”
She snorts. “Lance Bradford doesn’t do silence. You’ll start talking to your ceiling fan in under an hour.”
“That’s between me and the fan.”
“You need a drink, and people.”
Unfortunately, she’s probably right. A drink and people might keep my brain off George for at least a couple hours, which currently qualifies as therapy.
Charlie, Josh, and a few other nurses fall into step with me on the way out.
Coasterra sits right along the water with polished wood, warm lighting, and expensive cocktails with suspiciously tiny ice cubes.
The windows are thrown open to the bay, letting the breeze move through the place.
Outside, the patio stretches along the edge with string lights hanging overhead, the bridge lit up in the distance and reflected in the water.
We take over a spot right up against the bar, close enough that I can lean in and catch the bartender’s eye without shouting. I order a tequila soda with lime, already halfway out of my work headspace and determined to stay there.
Charlie takes one sip of her drink and says, “If one more patient calls me ‘nurse sweetheart’ while bleeding on me, I’m committing a felony.”
“Only one?” I ask. “I got called ‘doctor’ three times today. Corrected all three. Still got blamed for the wait.”
“That’s because you look like management,” she says.
“Tragic news. I’m barely qualified to take charge over my own life,” I mutter.
Josh points at me. “See? That’s exactly why patients trust you.”
“Charisma is a burden,” I say, shrugging.
“It’s narcissism,” Charlie corrects.
“Tomato, tomahto.”
We trade horror stories that get worse the more we laugh, the details too familiar and real, and somehow still funny once we’re out of it. I lean into this, letting myself slip back into the version of me that fills a room instead of overthinking every second of it.
Then Charlie grabs my forearm hard enough to make me spill tequila on my hand.
“Oh my God,” she hisses.
“What?”
Her eyes are locked across the room.
I follow her line of sight and immediately regret having functioning vision.