CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOPHIA
“Sophia?”
I look up.
Jesus Christ.
Jack’s standing there in dark jeans and a button-down that makes his shoulders look broader. His hair’s still damp from a shower, and there’s a tiny shaving cut on his jaw that makes him impossibly human.
But it’s the shirt that catches my attention.
Unlike the loose EMS uniform that usually hides everything, this button-down is definitely a size too small, pulling slightly across his chest, outlining muscles I’ve been pretending not to notice for weeks.
The fabric stretches just enough to hint at abs underneath.
He has to have done that on purpose.
I feel heat creeping up my neck.
“Sorry I’m late.” He slides into the seat across from me, and I catch a hint of soap and something woodsy. “Had to beg Morrison to cover the last hour. Cost me three shift trades and my dignity.”
“You look…” I stop myself before I say something stupid. Like commenting on how that shirt is doing things to my concentration.
“Like I own real clothes?” He grins, tugging at the collar self-consciously. Maybe he knows it’s too small. “You look incredible. That dress is…yeah.”
We stare at each other for a moment, the reality of this hitting us both.
“So,” he says finally. “This is weird.”
“Extremely weird.”
“Want to get wine and pretend it’s not?”
“ God , yes.”
He signals the waiter. “Do you have a…” He peruses the wine list briefly. “2019 McKenzie Estate Otago Pinot?”
The waiter’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Excellent choice, sir. That’s a particularly good vintage.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jack says casually, then glances at me. “If that’s alright? Or would you prefer something else?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, wondering briefly at the coincidence of the name.
When the waiter leaves, Jack leans back, studying me.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I was going to ask you anyway. Just…hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.”
“Really?”
“Really. Though Dr. Lee’s face was a bonus.”
I laugh despite myself. “Tasha’s probably started a betting pool by now.”
“Rodriguez already tried to get me to put twenty on whether we make it to dessert.”
“Did you?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Fifty on us closing the place down.”
The wine arrives. The waiter presents the bottle with particular care, and I notice the elegant label, with what looks like mountains in the background. Jack examines it briefly, nods approval.
“Beautiful label,” I comment as the waiter pours.
“Central Otago does produce some stunners,” Jack says neutrally.
He raises his glass. “To fake dates that aren’t actually fake?”
“To taking chances,” I counter, thinking of Madison’s words.
We clink glasses. The wine is incredible—rich, complex, probably costs more than I want to know.
“So, Jack McKenzie.” I set down my glass. “Tell me something that’s not in your personnel file.”
“What do you want to know?”
Everything, I think. But I start simple. “Why paramedicine? Really?”
Something flickers across his face. “You want the real answer or the interview answer?”
“Real. Always real.”
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his wine glass.
“My family owns…businesses. Back home. The kind where you’re expected to take over.
” He looks up. “I was supposed to run things. Had the degree, the training. Then I watched my dad save a tourist who was choking at a restaurant. Just grabbed him, did the Heimlich, kept going like it was nothing.”
“And?”
“And I realized I’d spent my life never doing anything that mattered. Never saved anyone. Never even tried.” He shrugs. “So I left. Came here. Became a paramedic. My mother still thinks it’s a phase.”
“How long has this ‘phase’ lasted?”
“Had my license for three years and counting.” His smile’s self-deprecating. “What about you? Always wanted to be a nurse?”
“God, no. I wanted to be a marine biologist. Saw dolphins at SeaWorld when I was seven and that was it. Dreams mapped out.”
“What changed?”
“Got pregnant at twenty-two. Married at twenty-three. Needed a real job with real benefits.” I trace the rim of my glass. “Turns out I’m good at it. The controlled chaos, the adrenaline. Making order out of disasters.”
“Like your life?”
I look up sharply, but his eyes are kind.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Troy—my ex—he was supposed to be the stable one. Finance degree, big dreams. Turned out his dreams kept shifting. Day trader, cryptocurrency, life coaching. Whatever his podcasts told him was the path to millions.”
“While you held down the fort.”
“Somebody had to.” I take another sip. “Madison needed consistency. Health insurance. Food.”
“And now?”
“Now she’s fifteen and wise beyond her years, and I’m thirty-eight and having dinner with a man I told to ‘call me anytime with that accent.’”
His grin is immediate. “Still standing by that invitation.”
“It was a slip of the tongue!”
“Freudian, maybe? And I’m thirty-two. Since we’re sharing ages and embarrassing moments.”
I do the math. Six years younger. “Your mother must love that you’re dating older women along with playing paramedic.”
“Haven’t told her yet.” He grins. “Want to make sure you’ll stick around through appetizers first.”
The waiter appears. We haven’t even looked at the menus. Jack orders for us both in Italian that definitely didn’t come from Duolingo.
“Hidden talents?” I ask.
“Spent a summer in Rome during uni. Family business.” He makes quote marks. “Learned the important things. Wine, food, how to apologize for being a tourist.”
“What else don’t I know?”
“Let’s see. Can’t sing at all. I play rugby badly, not like my sisters.”
“You seem pretty good at chaos management too, though,” I say, “or else you’re in the wrong line of business.”
He smiles, taking a sip of his wine. “I was just thinking the same about you. Though you were built for chaos too, in your way,” he says, circling back to my earlier comment. “Tell me more about that.”
I take another sip of my wine, considering how much to share. “Three years into nursing, I was working this quiet Tuesday morning shift in triage. I was taking the blood pressure of a sweet little blue-haired lady who probably had a UTI, when we heard the crash.”
Jack leans forward slightly, his food momentarily forgotten.
“Almost right outside our ambulance bay, a driver had a seizure, lost control, and plowed into a farmers market. Bystanders started loading victims into their cars, ambulances were scrambling. We had maybe a thirty-second warning before seventeen people arrived. Simultaneously.”
“Jesus,” Jack murmurs.
“Our manager—” I shake my head, “nice guy, but he’d come from a medsurg unit, wanted to try his hand at the ER. God knows why administration thought that was a good idea. But anyway, he just…froze. Complete deer-in-headlights. And I knew we had seconds to get organized.”
I find myself gesturing with my hands, the memory vivid even years later.
“So I just started barking orders. Pulled every available nurse, called in the off-duty docs who were sleeping in the lounge, commandeered the hallways for overflow. Told transport to clear the CT scanner, redirected elective cases. Started tagging patients—red, yellow, green.”
“Mass casualty protocol,” Jack nods approvingly.
“We had three critical head traumas, two pneumothoraxes, a near-amputation, and a pregnant woman in premature labor. But we saved them. Every single one.” I pause, then add more quietly, “I never got any recognition beyond being made a permanent charge nurse after that. But you don’t get ‘attagirls’ for just doing your job, right? ”
Jack’s looking at me with something that feels like respect mixed with admiration. It’s different from Troy’s dismissive tolerance of my work, or Cameron’s performative praise that always felt like a prelude to asking me out.
“That’s…incredible, Sophia,” he says finally. “You probably saved half those people before the doctors even touched them. Just by organizing the chaos.”
I feel a flush of pleasure at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “It’s what we do, right? You see it on the streets, I see it in the department.”
“Still,” he says, “that’s not just doing your job. That’s leadership under fire.”
“Sounds like something you’d see plenty of in paramedicine,” I deflect, not used to this kind of attention.
“Different kind of chaos,” he acknowledges. “But I think I get it now. Why you’re so good at being charge. It’s not just experience—you’re naturally wired for it.”
“My dad was military,” I hear myself saying, surprised at the disclosure. “We moved constantly. Maybe I learned to adapt quickly from that. To take control where I could.”
“Is he still around?”
“Passed a couple years ago. Heart attack.” I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. “He was my rock when my marriage was ending. Used to drive four hours just to take Madison for a weekend so I could have a break.”
Jack reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine in a gesture so natural it doesn’t feel intrusive. “He sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” I smile, pushing back the melancholy. “Would have liked you, I think. He appreciated competence and had no patience for BS.”
“Man after my own heart,” Jack grins. “What about your mom?”
“Retired teacher, lives in Florida now. Calls Madison twice a week for ‘girl chats’ and sends me articles about how I work too much.”
“She’s not wrong,” Jack teases gently.
“Probably not,” I concede. “Though having a fifteen-year-old doesn’t leave much downtime.
Madison’s great, but—” I laugh, “—she has strong opinions about everything. Last month she made this ridiculous PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Why Mom Needs a Social Life’ with actual pie charts about my work-to-fun ratio.”
Jack laughs, that warm sound that seems to vibrate through me. “Smart kid.”
“Too smart sometimes,” I agree. “So. We got a little sidetracked. Your sisters?”