Page 1 of One Night Only

Chapter One

Annika

Another Valentine’sDay disaster in the books.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Not a single one of my good deeds ever goes unpunished. But today, the universe is seriously messing with me.

The hospital waiting room is a jarring mix of sterile utility and misplaced festivity. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, their harsh glare reflecting off the polished linoleum floors. A cluster of heart-shaped balloons bobs limply by the nurses’ station, their cheery red and pink hues mocking me.

Rain lashes against the windows, its relentless rhythm blending with the squeak of rubber soles and the occasional crackle of the PA system.

I sniffle, lean my head against the wall, and stare up at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable in the plastic chair. The sharp tang of disinfectant clings to my nostrils, barely covering the damp scent of wet clothes.

Bad enough that my boyfriend, Rahul, is into my friend Zach more than me. And while I would call myself adventurous, Ididn’t need to witness said boyfriend’s raunchy bi-awakening at Zach’s hands and mouth and… other appendages.

At least, it explains our nonexistent sex life and Rahul’s incapability to launch me anywhere, even with a nineteen-step instruction manual. Although, to be fair to him, after the first couple of unsuccessful tries, I gave up on him and myself.

Finding them busy with each other, I fled into the rainy streets of Portland, giving the local theater Juliet a run for her money, fell headlong onto the concrete, and scraped my knee raw. Then, just as I was planning to drown myself in hot tears and warm tea, my phone rang.

My ex-client, by one day, sixty-seven-year-old Martha Cross, slipped in the kitchen and broke her knee. I booked an Uber—something I could ill-afford—and arrived at the hospital with my heart in my throat.

Only to be told that she was in surgery.

Yesterday was my last day as Martha’s live-in help. But guilt sits on my chest like the kettle ball Zach swings around first thing in the morning. Clearly, he’s better at swinging other things than gym equipment.

I’ve worked for her for only eleven months. But the idea of that sweet old lady in pain sends prickling heat to my eyes, and I blink them back.

An orderly walks by me, whistling a jaunty tune, then stops. “Don’t cry, pretty girl,” he says, winking at me. “One man’s trash is another’s treasure.”

Pressing a hand to my heated cheeks, I follow his leering gaze down my body and gasp.

Between seeing Rahul’s flexing ass cheeks with Zach lodged in between them and the image of Martha alone in the hospital, I completely forgot about my outfit. The slutty cupid costume was one last-ditch attempt to revive my wilting romance with Rahul.

Shooting to my feet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass partition, and it’s… a lot.

My sequined red dress clings to me like a soggy candy wrapper, the hem riding up so high I’m practically indecent. Thank God I have panties underneath.

The gold wings on my back are drooping pathetically, one of them bent at an awkward angle, like it’s given up on life.

There are spider-web sized snags in my fishnet stockings, and my strappy stilettos are scuffed, leaving wet footprints on the polished linoleum floor. My lipstick is smudged, half from crying, half from angrily wiping at it.

Against the sterile white walls, I look like a tragic party favor someone accidentally brought to a hospital instead of a nightclub.

“Trash or treasure?” I call out, and the orderly turns around.

He grins, showing his gap-toothed smile, and sweeps his gaze over me. It works hard at being leery and ends up cute. On second look, he looks like a poor girl’s Bruno Mars, and I am definitely poor. “Trash, but like I said, that’s my treasure.”

I smile, foolishly warmed by this stranger’s honest compliment. Should I ask him if he wants to share a cup of cheap vending machine cappuccino in the dystopian-looking cafeteria?

It’s not the Valentine’s Day I hoped for, but he seems like decent company, especially since I don’t plan to budge from here until I have news about Martha.

I stick my knee out and plant one hand on my hip, my eyes carefully trained away from my reflection. Can’t afford another dent in my confidence. “How much longer is your shift?”

His grin broadens. “An hour tops.” Then it grows cocky. “You look like a fun girl. Want to join me in wheeling patient number…” he looks at his palm and rattles off a long number, “to the mortuary?”

“That’s a little too much fun for me,” I say, shivering.

Before he offers to liven up my night with dead people, the other door opens, nudging him aside.

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