Page 34 of Near Miss

We both turn and look, and there’s a distinct swish of the white linen curtain falling back into place.

Greer lifts her eyes skyward with a tiny shake of her head, ponytail dancing behind her before yanking open the door of the truck. “Fucking Cash.”

I debate waiting to make sure she gets in okay and doesn’t catch her dress on anything or close the door on it, but I doubt that’s going to play well, so I walk the rest of the way around the truck and hop in just as she’s slamming the door shut.

I glance at her as I start the truck. She shifts in her seat, smoothing out her dress again and fidgeting with her ponytail before taking the small purse from the crook of her elbow and setting it in her lap.

She blinks rapidly and her brow furrows. She looks nervous.

Palming the steering wheel, I glance in the rearview and pull away from the curb. “Why do you call your sister Cash?”

“Childhood nickname. Our dad called her Cashew, and it transitioned into adulthood with her,” she answers, but she stares out the window, watching the neighbourhood lights blur into the lower lights of the east end.

“Cashew.” I nod, taking another glance at her in the mirror. “What did he call you?”

Greer cuts me a sideways look, tipping her chin up. “Nothing that journeyed with me into adulthood.”

I tsk, smiling, and give a jerk of my head. “Secrets don’t make friends, Dr. Roberts.”

Her chin tips up further. “It’s a good thing we’re business acquaintances then.”

I raise my eyebrows and nod, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Alright, business acquaintance. At least tell me what I’m walking into here. What should I expect at a health network gala where my acquaintance is being honoured?”

She laughs, and it’s raspy like her voice. I like the sound. But she doesn’t do it nearly enough.

I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve heard it, or seen her smile, and I feel a bit like collecting them—keeping them safe in my back pocket.

Greer rolls her shoulders back, like she’s trying to relax. “You can expect several burnt-out doctors, self-important surgeons who should have retired years ago, and philanthropists with too much time and too much money that they’ve run out of worthy causes to spend it on so they make up awards for people like me who are really just nothing but by-products at the end of the day.”

Her lips tug down to one side, and her thumb taps against the console of the truck. By-product seems like an off sort of way to refer to herself—to what most people would consider a worthy way to spend your time—but she blinks again, and I think she’s keeping more secrets.

I wish she’d give me one of those—I’d put it beside the smiles and the laughter, and I’d make sure it was safe, too.

But she doesn’t waver, she’s resolute. Greer sits up straighter in her seat just as we pass under a streetlamp, and it catches her eyes and her dress at the same time. She reminds me a bit of a brand-new flower, not quite ready to open, but maybe one day soon.

So, I lean back in the seat, one arm slung over the steering wheel lazily, rap my knuckles on the console beside her hand, and throw her a grin. “You think they like football?”

It is a lot of people with too much time and too much money, too many inflated egos, and too many doctors that look seconds from falling asleep standing up.

But it’s a beautiful venue—floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the top floor of a building that belongs to a newspaper right downtown. A giant stage, illuminated with tiny lights, and a small ornate table with three crystal awards practically sparkling. Passed trays of champagne, freshly uncorked and poured, bubbles splashing over the crystal. Low lights and pretentious, small bites of food floating around on silver platters.

More than that—it’s a beautiful girl.

For someone who didn’t seem like she wanted to be here, she blends in well. She isn’t exuberant—but she smiles quietly, politely, at everyone and shakes their hands before introducing me as her friend, Beckett Davis.

I grinned the first time, mouthing the wordsbusiness acquaintancebefore she gave me a flat look and moved on.

“It looks a bit like a wedding in here,” I mutter, glancing sideways at Greer.

“It does.” She nods, tapping her champagne flute to her lips, before pointing it at a large acrylic sign hanging suspended before the doorway. “The seating chart is a bit much.”

I cringe. It is a bit much. Shoving one hand in the pocket of my suit pants, I drain the rest of my champagne and set it on the table behind me. “Are we sitting with anyone good?”

She snorts, tipping her chin towards a table across the hall. Three men in suits crowd the table, leaning around the towering taper candles that serve as a centrepiece. They all clink what look to be ridiculously expensive glasses before slapping the table and throwing their heads back in what’s probably grating laughter.

“They look—”

“Self-important?” Greer widens her eyes at me.

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