Page 80 of Careless Whisper

“Qué te pasa?” Juanita mused.

“You’re flirting with him all the time.”

“I flirt witheveryone…well, everyone who is maleandhandsome.” Juanita sounded amused.

“Stop doing it.”

“Why?”

“Just stop it, Juanita,” Reggie ordered, but it sounded like she was pleading.

There was a long pause, and then Juanita spoke softly, so I had to all but press my ear to the open doorto hear her. “Why are you acting like a martyr when you’re clearly in love with the man?”

“I’m not in love with him,” Reggie replied.

“Please. You look at him like you want to kill him and kiss him. Both at the same time.”

“Juanita—”

“No one gets that jealous unless they care,” Juanita added with what I thought was smug satisfaction. “So maybe take your head out of yourculoand go get your man.”

“He’s not my man,” Reggie exclaimed.

“Then you should have no problem with me climbing him like a tree. The man iscaliente!”

I heard the cabinet doors slamming before I even reached the supply room and veered away—a coward with a stethoscope.

Yes, I was eavesdropping.No, I didn’t feel bad about it.

That conversation stirred hope in me, which only soared when she assigned Juanita and me to clean bedpans the next day.

“She’s so mad, it’s kind of sweet,” Juanita whispered, handing me gloves like we were passing contraband.

“You think she wants to kiss me or kill me?” I murmured back.

Juanita grinned. “Kill you.No question. But she also looked like she wanted to throw down when Icomplimented your eyes, so…you’re not dead in the water.”

“Great,” I muttered as I got to work. “So, I’m attractive enough to inspire homicide. That’s progress.”

“Majorprogress.” Juanita wiggled her eyebrows. “If she assigns you to mop the clinic floor with a toothbrush tomorrow…she’s in love.”

“With the floor or with me?” I mocked.

“That depends upon how well you clean,señor.”

CHAPTER 29

Reggie

Apickup truck skidded into the gravel lot in front of the clinic, tires throwing up dust, horn blaring like a warning siren. The door flew open before the engine even cut off. A man burst out, wild-eyed and shouting, his voice cracking with fear.

“Mi hijo! Está sangrando mucho—ayuda!”

My pulse spiked as I moved quickly. Gloves snapped onto my hands with muscle memory. I met the man at the passenger side just as he tried to lift a boy into his arms, Juanita following me.

“Déjeme,” I said gently, taking over. I didn’t want the father to move the patient.

The boy—maybe ten years old—was curled in on himself, his face pinched in pain, his breath hitching with quiet, hiccupped sobs. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his ribs like a second skin. A flannelbutton-down, probably his dad’s, was wadded against his side, already dark red.

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