Trustfall (Emberfield Falls #1)

1. Emory

1

EMORY

I see people on the worst days of their lives. As an ER nurse, it comes with the territory. But I also watch them survive—and that's what I choose to focus on. The survival.

Because, after all, that’s what I’m doing.

Surviving.

Still, there are shifts that are crafted in a special place in Hell, and today happens to be one of them.

My shift starts promptly at six a.m. At six-thirty, the victims of a five-car pileup start coming through on a never-ending conveyor belt. At ten o’clock, a man comes rushing in with a towel pressed to his head, blood pouring out from underneath. At first, I think he’s been shot, but then his wife is escorted in by law enforcement. She has mascara running down her face and glass shards stuck in her hands. It turns out she bashed a crystal vase over her husband’s head after she caught him in bed with their couples’ yoga instructor. Clearly, that didn’t work out for them.

By one, it becomes clear that my lunch with Nate is not going to happen when an entire office of people comes in with food poisoning. I don’t even have time to shoot off a text to him before I’m covered in vomit. I’m sure he’s going to send out a search party when he doesn’t hear from me, but I can’t even think about that right now.

“Hey Emory, can you administer Zofran to the lady in bay eight? I’m knee-deep over here,” my colleague Sandra calls to me as I walk out of the locker room, having just changed my scrubs for the second time in a row.

“Of course,” I reply, heading down the hallway toward the bays.

As I push Zofran into the woman’s IV, she looks up at me with a groan. “I’m such an idiot. I should have known there was a reason that smoked salmon was on sale, but money has been tight lately, and morale has been so low. I thought an office breakfast would help get everyone out of their funk. Turns out it caused more funk.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. I’m sure you meant well,” I say, capping the syringe and placing it in the sharps container.

“Ray is never going to forgive me. This is the last thing we need right now.”

“Your husband?” I question, and she nods. “I’m sure he will understand. You were just trying to help.”

“That's easy for you to say. You didn't see Jake throw up into the new laminator. That thing cost seven hundred bucks.” She gets that look in her eyes again, so I scoot the circular container closer to her as she leans down and empties her stomach into it.

“Try to relax, Mrs. Lemming. The meds will take effect within the next hour, and you should start feeling better. I’ll be back to check on you in a few.”

As I get up to leave, the door bursts open. A frazzled man storms in, his salt-and-pepper hair in disarray. He rushes over to the bedside, his tie, carelessly flung over his shoulder, flapping in the wind behind him.

“Vicky, I got here as fast as I could. Are you okay?” He starts to feel around her, checking if she's hurt anywhere.

“It’s food poisoning, dear. I didn’t get into a car accident.”

“Right.” He shakes his head. Then he looks at me and lowers his voice as if she can’t still hear him. “How bad is it, Doc?”

“Hi, Mr. Lemming. I’m Emory, your wife’s nurse. I just gave her something for the nausea, so the vomiting should start to slow down soon. Once she finishes this course of IV fluids, she will be able to go home. She’ll need plenty of electrolytes and rest for the next few days, but she should be just fine.”

“Oh, thank God.” He blows out a breath of relief.

“Ray, honey, it's my fault,” Vicky blurts out. “I tried to boost morale by hosting breakfast at the office this morning while you were out meeting with investors. The salmon must have been bad. A couple of hours later, people started rushing to the bathroom like their pants were on fire. I'm so sorry.”

“I don’t care about that, Vicky. I’m just glad you’re okay. Let’s focus on getting you better so we can go home.”

“But what if one of our employees sues us or something?”

“We’ve been through worse. We’ll get through it.”

“But the laminator…”

“Fuck the laminator.”

Oh, shit. I didn't see that coming. I guess Ray has a sassy side. I shuffle towards the door to give them some space. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” I say as I open the door to leave.

“Thank you so much,” Vicky calls. “You have been amazing.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

As soon as I walk out of the room, I lean against the wall and close the door as an overwhelming feeling of loneliness washes over me. It’s the type of feeling that makes it too painful to stand. I don't know what it says about me that I can witness a man's brains nearly falling out of his head without flinching, yet I can't bear to see a tender moment between a husband and wife. Every time I witness that kind of love, I'm reminded that it's something I'll never experience.

Does it mean that I’m going through the motions a little bit? Sure. I love my job. I have people who care about me. But I would be lying if I said my life isn’t missing something.

I won't take the risk, though. Being alone is one thing. Being lonely in a relationship is far worse. It's a bitter, gut-wrenching loneliness that eats away at you until there’s nothing left. I've felt it once, and I won't go through that again. Some wounds are too deep to reopen.

By some miracle, the night-shift nurse taking over for me shows up half an hour early. I quickly sign out the ongoing cases to her and rush to the locker room to change into fresh scrubs—again. When I check my phone, I see four missed calls and five text messages—all from Nate. I swear my brother needs a hobby. He supposedly works at our dad’s company now, but he still finds time to keep track of everything I do. As I walk to the parking garage, I scan through the messages. Then I call him back, and the call connects to my car's Bluetooth as I get in. He answers on the second ring.

“It's about damn time. I was going to check the emergency room, but then I remembered you work there, so you'd be there anyway,” Nate deadpans.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bust through the ‘Employee Only’ doors.”

“I’m working on giving you your space as requested,” he says, but it sounds reluctant.

“Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, but the barrage of missed calls and texts says otherwise.”

He huffs and I change tactics before he can give me an earful. Nate takes the role of overprotective big brother seriously. He’s been that way since I can remember, but it got worse in high school. Nate’s only two years older than me, but he acts like a parent sometimes. Our grandparents raised us since I was three. My dad is a workaholic and never around, so when my mom passed, they took us in rather than let a revolving door of nannies raise us. Everything came to a screeching halt when Opa died, though. Gram fell apart and eventually developed early-onset dementia. My dad moved her into an assisted-living facility in town, and we moved into his house—if you can call it that. It’s more like a palatial estate. Nate took it hard, and it changed things between us. His overprotective tendencies and anxiety worsened. Not to mention, he was a teenage football player who knew exactly what was on every guy’s mind in locker rooms and at parties. It was easier not to fight it, so I never did.

It wasn't until the middle of tenth grade that I found out Nate had basically banned any guy at school from even talking to me. He had the whole football team pass out flyers warning guys away from me. Not that it mattered. The one person I wanted back then was completely off-limits and barely even knew I existed.

“Emory? Are you even listening?” Nate chides.

Shit, I didn’t realize he had been talking.

“Listen, I’m sorry I had to bail on lunch,” I say, snapping myself out of the past. “An entire office came in with food poisoning, and let’s just say I’m never going to eat smoked salmon ever again.”

“Gross. Yeah, I don't need any further details.” He makes a gagging sound and clears his throat before he continues. “I was going to tell you at lunch, but I guess I’ll tell you now. I found someone to move in next door, so you’re going to have a new neighbor.”

“Okay…”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“What? It’s been kind of nice not having anyone live there. It feels more private,” I say, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I pull out of the parking lot.

“I’ll be sure to let Dad know he shouldn’t rent that cottage out anymore and lose money so that you can have your privacy. ”

My dad owns all six cottages on my street. After college, I wanted to move out and support myself, but finding an affordable apartment with my best friend Allie proved tough. Eventually, I let Dad help us out. He knew of six craftsman cottages for sale, but the deal was all or nothing, so he bought them all. We got to pick the one we wanted and insisted on paying rent, though it had to be well below market value to work for us. Dad rented the others at a fair price, so it didn’t set him back too much. He can afford it, anyway. My father owns a billion-dollar cybersecurity company in New York. He has a satellite office here in Emberfield, but he’s hardly ever there, preferring the bustle and grind of the city to our humble little New England town.

The cottage next to ours has been empty for a month, ever since the single mom and her kids who lived there moved to Michigan to be near family. Dad appointed Nate to rent it out, and apparently, he came through.

“Okay, you have a point,” I admit. “But it better not be some weirdo.”

“Oh, hey Em, I’m getting another call. I’ve gotta take this. I’ll see you at family dinner tomorrow.”

“But we’re not done talking about this alleged new neighbor yet,” I try to get out, but the call has already ended.

I pull onto my road and take in the maple-lined street. Our cottage is the last on the left, with just one neighbor beside us and one across. All the cottages are painted white with black trim. Each has a front garden and a back teak deck. They were originally built in the fifties, and then a developer slowly bought and renovated them before selling to Dad. They are modern yet maintain New England's classic charm. Honestly, our cottage is my dream home, and I'm grateful to Dad for it. As I park, I spot Allie at the door. She steps onto the front porch and leans against the front door. I can see her glare from here.

“Do not take another step, young lady.” She stands there, unmoving, with a scowl on her face and her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Allie, I’m older than you.”

“Only by a few months. Now strip.” She points her finger at me, then points to the ground, motioning for me to take my clothes off.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard all about the barf fest at work today, and I’m not interested in having your nasty-ass scrubs in our home,” she huffs.

“How many times have we been over this, Allie? I change into different scrubs before I come home. These scrubs were nowhere near barf. And how did you even know about that?”

“Nate texted to give me a heads up. And I don’t care if you changed. Those fuckers are hardy, and I’m not taking any chances.”

It's clear she's not going to back down, and all I want to do is take a shower and wash away the exhaustion of the day. But when she gets in one of these moods, there's no point in arguing with her. It's always better to just go along with it. I glance around to make sure no one is watching, then pull down my scrub pants. Allie nods her head for me to keep going, so I remove my scrub top and toss it on the ground beside my pants. “Happy? Now can I please go inside?”

“Tank top, too,” she orders.

“Oh my God, Allie. What if someone sees?”

“No one drives on this street unless they live here, and Mr. Bellamy can’t see two feet in front of him,” she says, nodding at the cottage across the street.

“Ughh, fine!” I relent and pull my camisole over my head. But before I can completely remove it, I hear the distinct sound of a motorcycle approaching. At first, I think it's on the road next to ours, but it keeps getting louder. Without thinking, I finish taking off the tank top to see what's going on. That's when the motorcycle turns into the driveway beside ours. The rider gets off the bike, and as soon as he removes his helmet, my jaw falls to the ground.

Because standing no more than twenty feet from me is Luke Collins. As in wide receiver for my high school football team. As in Nate’s best friend. As in the guy I have had a soul-destroying crush on since I was twelve.

I go to grab onto my car to steady myself, but misjudge my proximity to it, instead leaning on thin air. I try to right my wrong at the last second, but it doesn’t work, and I go crashing down to the ground. Looking up at Allie, who is too stunned to even move, I start to sit up and make my way onto my knees to stand. But before I can get myself all the way up and crawl into an actual hole, I feel warmth against my hand and inhale a spicy scent mixed with the faintest hint of mint. I know what I’m going to see when I look up, but it’s somehow even worse than I was expecting. Luke is holding my hand, and I’m literally on my knees in front of him. His expression is hard to read. His lips are turned up slightly in the beginning stages of a smirk, but his eyes dance back and forth with concern.

“Are you okay? That was a pretty nasty fall.” He tugs gently on my hand, and I must be dead weight until I realize what’s happening and stand. It’s at that point that I get a better look at him, and it’s devastating.

His dark hair is slightly longer on top, falling over his cornflower blue eyes, which have these thin navy rings around the irises. He's wearing a white T-shirt and dark jeans that fit him like they were tailored to his body. I take a closer look at his hand, still holding mine, and notice the swirls of black ink on his arms, peeking out from under his leather jacket. He has aged in the best way possible, going from teenager to all man, in the eight years he’s been away.

I realize I haven’t said anything when his thumb grazes my hand. The hand he is still holding…

“I…”

He looks expectantly.

“You…” I try again.

“Shit. Are you having trouble speaking? It didn’t look like you hit your head,” he speaks again, and I notice he has lost the slight Southern drawl he had when we were in high school. The guys on the football team used to make fun of him, calling him ‘SG’ for Southern gentleman because of his accent but also because he truly was the definition of a gentleman. The kind that only exists in books and movies. He would be the first to run to open the door for a girl, whether she was a cheerleader or the captain of the chess team. He didn’t discriminate. He didn’t do it to get in her pants or make himself look like a hero. He treated everyone with the kind of warmth and compassion that could only be genuine.

Like right now, for example. He could have pretended he didn’t see what happened and gone about his business, but he flew over here because he saw someone in distress. Luke raises his hands to my cheeks, stopping just short of touching them. Looking straight into my eyes, he nods slightly, as if asking permission. When I don't pull away, he gently places his hands on my face and moves my head from side to side, inspecting me for any signs of injury.

“I—I’m fine,” I finally manage to get out. It’s at that moment that I remember something.

Something vitally important.

The moment I go to look down at myself, he looks down too and immediately releases me like my skin is on fire. Yep, I’m in nothing but a bright pink bra and Valentine’s Day underwear, complete with candy hearts.

Dancing candy hearts.

And yes, it’s April.

“I have to go. Sorry. Thanks. Bye,” I say in one breath.

I don’t even bother to pick up my clothes from the ground as I rush up the steps, pushing a stunned Allie inside and slamming the front door behind us.