Page 13 of A Kiss on a Dare
Chapter 5. The Heated Words
My shift starts at eight, and I know Gabrielle’s does, too, so I arrive at the hospital two hours early. The place feels half-empty—most of the staff are at home celebrating Christmas, as are the less serious patients. Only the essential personnel from each department are here tonight. The whole building buzzes with a kind of Christmas serenity: quiet, peaceful, with soft music playing at the nurses’ station (Mariah Carey, of course). It creates an almost cozy, festive vibe, and I can already tell this is going to be a laid-back shift. Thank God. I’m feeling much better now—the hangover is gone, replaced with a nervous energy that keeps me sharp. Maybe I can find somewhere to hide and lay low to avoid Gabrielle entirely.
The first thing I do is head to the changing rooms to get ready, hoping to avoid any chance of running into him later. I’m extra cautious as I open the door, peeking inside. The light is off, and the room is bathed in deep blue shadows from the windows. I don’t see anyone else inside, so I let out a sigh of relief and step in.
But as I walk down the narrow corridor and round the corner, I collide with something—or rather, someone. Big, warm, and very shirtless.
And because life has a very twisted sense of humor, that shirtless someone is, of course, none other than James Gabrielle. He’s wearing earbuds, which explains why he doesn’t hear me coming before we collide. He jerks back slightly, pulling the earbuds out so they dangle around his neck.
“Ray?” Gabrielle says, his voice surprised, while I stand there, desperately trying not to combust from sheer embarrassment.
“Sorry,” I mumble, my face blazing. “I thought I was alone.”
My eyes dart everywhere but at him because I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, and Idefinitelycan’t look at his bare chest, which I already kind of did—it’s all lean muscle and golden skin, still slightly damp from what must have been a recent shower. He doesn’t look hungover in the slightest, like he emerged from last night’s chaos untouched, while I’m barely held together with my decaf Coke and sheer willpower.
“I, uh, came early to…” I trail off, realizing I don’t actually have a prepared excuse. I obviously can’t tell him I came early to avoid him.
“Me too,” Gabrielle says quickly, then clears his throat and adds, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I stammer, the words tumbling out awkwardly.
Gabrielle nods, his face blank, and then turns to his locker, giving me a view of his back that does absolutely nothing to steady my already faltering composure.
I shuffle awkwardly toward my own locker, trying to maintain what feels like a safe distance—which is ridiculous, considering less than 24 hours ago, I had his tongue in my mouth, and then he watched me rub my very hard cock against him.
The silence stretches between us, thick and unbearable. I fumble with my combination lock, getting it wrong twice because my hands won’t stop shaking. The metal clangs loudly in the quiet room, making me wince.
I stall for as long as I can, unwilling to undress in front of him, but I can sense Gabrielle is stalling too. Eventually, though, there’s no avoiding it, and I start changing. As I pull off my shirt and slip on my scrubs, I can feel Gabrielle’s eyes on me, a sensation that sets my nerves on fire. When I’m finally dressed, I steel myself for what I know I have to do and turn to face him.
“About last night—” I begin, but my voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. In the dim light, I see Gabrielle freeze, his shoulders going rigid. I look away and force myself to keep going, knowing this needs to be said. “I’m really sorry for…kissing you. That was poor judgment on my part. I was really, really drunk, and I didn’t know what I was doing.”
It’s a lie—every word of it—but I need to make things right between us. I glance up at Gabrielle, but in the poor lighting, his expression is unreadable. “Really, really drunk,” I add, just to hammer it home.
Gabrielle runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture I’ve never seen from him before. “We both were,” he says quickly, his perfectly groomed eyebrows drawing together in what looks like regret. “I’m your superior, and you’re right, it was completely inappropriate, and—”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, unable to bear hearing him list all the reasons why kissing me was a terrible idea. “Let’s just…” I falter, swallowing hard, the word sticking in my throat. But then I force it out. “…forget it happened. I mean, we were both drunk, it was Christmas Eve, and…yeah.”
Something flickers across Gabrielle’s face—too quick for me to pin down. But before I can dwell on it, his expression smooths into that familiar professional mask.
“Right,” he says, his tone clipped. “That would be…best.”
I turn back to my locker, blinking rapidly to fight the sting in my eyes. God, I’m pathetic. Behind me, I hear Gabrielle finish getting dressed, the rustle of fabric painfully loud in the oppressive silence.
“I’ll see you at rounds, Dr. Hale,” he says finally, his voice carefully neutral.
I nod jerkily, unable to turn around, waiting until I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall and the door close behind him before letting out a shaky breath. Then I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the cool metal of my locker.
“Fuck,” I whisper, closing my eyes. This is going to be the longest shift of my life.
***
It’s four hours later, and Gabrielle and I have just finished our rounds in the ICU. The whole thing was very professional on both our parts. Meaning: awkward. I made a concerted effort to keep my distance, but when our elbows inevitably brushed, I felt an electric shock pass through me every single time. I’ve been watching Gabrielle closely, and he seemed just as careful about not invading my personal space—though that didn’t always work out.
Case in point: Mr. Dodger. The man suddenly decided he was feeling great, got out of bed, and promptly collapsed on me. Gabrielle rushed to help, and together we managed to wrestle the protesting man back onto the mattress. By the time we were done, both of us were sweaty and thoroughly disheveled, which only added to the tension hanging between us.
When the ICU rounds are finally over, we head back to the changing rooms. The hospital’s policy is clear: after working in the ICU, a shower and scrubs change is mandatory. As we walk down the corridors, my brain spins chaotically, trying to figure out a way to avoid going into the locker rooms with Gabrielle. Because that would mean taking a shower next to him. Which, given the events of last night, couldn’t possibly be more awkward.
I consider making up an excuse and slipping off to a changing room on another floor, but that would only make it obvious how uncomfortable I am—and how badly I want to avoid this situation.
