Page 6 of Book Boyfriends
I crinkle my nose. “That’s not even between the main characters. That was between Lars and his second in command… All they were doing was sparring.”
“The sexual tension.” She mock-swoons.
“His mate was Ivy, not Victor.”
“Why not both?” She waggles her blonde eyebrows.
With a laugh, I make my way past reception toward the stairs. Most people wouldn’t think popping back into work could be a pick-me-up after a bad date, but it is. The renovated hacienda-style estate turned sub-acute facility has been my happy place for the last five years,.
Not only does the brick building offer a magical whimsy with its courtyard’sSecret Gardenaesthetic, but here I am Georgia the Capable. Besides a few staff, volunteers, and even some patients that try to set me up with single sons, brothers, and someone’s accountant, there’s no arched eyebrow at the decisions I make. Unlike Davis, with his mouth’s dismissive firm line, or my brothers.
With each step closer to the hospice unit’s main door, the annoyance that wound tight in my body dissolves. Plucking a mask from the dispenser, I place it on and then squirt sanitizer on my hands before I swipe my badge to enter. It’s after seven, so the unit is locked down for the night, other than staff and a few stray family members camped out beside loved ones’ beds. Unlike the rehab unit in the east wing, visitor’s hours here are loosely enforced to allow friends and family ample time to say goodbye.
“Georgia!” Pilar looks up from the computer, amusement sparkles in her amber-colored eyes. “Didn’t think we’d see you tonight.”
Tossing my purse onto the desk at the nurses’ station, I lean against the counter. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“Even for a date?” Pilar’s head tilts.
“Of course.” I bat my long lashes.
“Liar!” Head shaking, she taps at the keyboard. “You’re dedicated, butnotthat dedicated. Must have been a bad date.”
There’s no getting anything by Pilar Ramirez-Gellar. St. Philip Neri’s chief physician isn’t just an astute doctor, but she can also read people with a single glance. Not to mention, over the last five years of working together she’s heard plenty of my bad date stories.
“I hope this one didn’t get your credit cards.”
“Only my social security card. Is that bad?” I clutch my chest in mock dismay.
“Ha!” She pushes her glasses atop her head. “What was wrong with this one?”
“He spent half the date on his phone and the other half insulting me.”
“He didn’t!” she says, her eyes wide.
“He did.” I cross my arms.
“What did he say?”
I puff out a long breath, the sound reminiscent of spinning helicopter blades. “He belittled my writing. Well, notmywriting exactly, but romance as a genre.”
I don’t expect my partner to share my fondness for romance. However, I do expect them to respect it, and by extension, me.
“Was he at least attractive?”
“He’s your typical white boy finance bro—even if he skews undercover hot nerd.” I wave my hands dismissively.
“You do like a hot nerd.”
Heat crawls up my spine. Hot nerds are my thing, at least in real life. My book boyfriends bounce between sexy shapeshifters, boy next doors with filthy mouths in bed, and the dashing Mr. Darcy-types.
But Davis with his glasses. The hint of a muscular body from beneath a short-sleeved button-up shirt. Hair neat, butnot overly styled. A soft, minty eucalyptus scent. TheStar Trekphone case—Next Generation, not the original. From the superficial assessment of first impressions, a flutter had bloomed in my belly at the sight of Davis. I’m adult enough to admit that, but the wrapping didn’t match the interior.
“Did you miss the finance bro part?” I motion at her.
“Not every man in finance is a bro. They’re not all Will.”
Gut punch.I almost rear back at the mention of my ex. It’s been five years and countless bad dates between present day and a time when I wasn’t just me, but one half of Georgia and Will. Five years since the now fogged-up idea of a happy ending with someone seemed so crystal clear that I could reach out and almost grab it.
