Page 28 of Take Me Home for Christmas

It was a tiny space with a bare desk, white walls, and glaring fluorescent lighting that whitewashed everything. A blank slate, waiting for the next person to move in. As soon as the door clicked behind him, he let out a huge sigh and said, “Mia, I’m sorry.”

To his credit, not the worst way to begin. But still. “For what? Dating me, having sex with me, or ghosting me without a word?” Fists balled, I braced for his answer.

“I could never be sorry for dating you.” He met my gaze. “I just can’t keep doing it.”

I swept my arm around the antiseptic-smelling closet-office. “Is this why you ghosted me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

To his credit, he looked pained. But I had no sympathy. I was being dumped—again. I’d fallen head over heels, but he clearly wasn’t feeling the wonderfulness, the euphoria, the magic.Ouch.

“The person they chose to be chief left suddenly for family reasons, so they offered me the job. I took it because it was academic, and I’d get an opportunity to interact with theresidents. Now that I’m the chief,” he said, “dating would be awkward.”

“You’re notmychief.” I knew what he was doing. Using this as an excuse to get out of…us. “If you weren’t feeling it, you should have told me. Before now.” I shook my head. I wanted to kill someone—specifically him. But I was a professional, and suddenly, we were in a professional relationship—one where we would not only be seeing each other every single day, but also working closely together, taking call, saving lives.

The enormity of that revelation nearly brought me to my knees. The entirety of a year. Every. Single. Day.

I’d felt things with him—things I hadn’t felt during my million years with Charlie. I’d been completely, unabashedly myself. I was totally blindsided, and that hurt like hell.

I turned to leave.

He called my name. Put a hand on my arm so I would turn around. And I did. I looked into his eyes. I saw conflict. Remorse. Probably from the regret of starting things up in the first place.

Stupid, stupid me.

He spoke calmly and softly. But that didn’t stop me from being furious. “I want you to know you’re really special,” he said. “But doing a relationship under these circumstances won’t work for me. I can’t show partiality to you. I can’t let my emotions impact decisions.” He paused a long time as we stood there, staring at each other. “I hope we can still be friends.”

It was the typical blow-off line. I hadn’t been the recipient of that because of dating Charlie for forever, but all my friends had. Now it was my turn to experience this special form of humiliation.

Bitterly, I realized that Brax had warned me. He’d straight-out told me from the get-go that he wasn’t the type to settle down, but I’d fallen for him anyway.

He looked miserable, and I was glad. I straightened my spine and pulled out my courage. “I won’t say a word to anyone, and I’ll treat this like a working relationship.” And then I left.

He called my name. Tears were already leaking from my eyes, but there was no way I was going to let him see them.

Back at the table in my parents’ house, I was a mess of emotions, all because of the most simple, straightforward question. I hadn’t wanted to remember that day. It seemed incredible that we’d somehow become friends after that—but we worked so well as a team, and we often found ourselves on call together, bound by the adrenaline rush of life and death. I was trying to figure out how I got from there to here, with Brax at my home, sitting around the table with my family, when he touched my arm, bringing me back to reality.

“I’ll tell the story,” Brax said, completely unruffled by my spacing out. “It was after midnight one night last July, our first night on call together, and we were getting hit with admissions left and right. The cafeteria had closed, I’d missed dinner, and I was starving. I walked up to the toddler ward to maybe steal some graham crackers and apple juice to tide me over until morning. It was dim and quiet, and there was Mia, sitting on the floor in her scrubs, reading a book to a kid and unwrapping a sandwich.”

My heart began a slow but loud thump-thump-thump that surely everyone at the table could hear.

I remembered that night. We’d gotten killed with relentless admissions, one after another, until around 2:00 a.m., when the constant panicked rush of stamping out fires finally slowed. Brax wasn’t the only one who’d missed dinner. I’d had to break out my emergency food supply. And as for the little kid…he couldn’t sleep in a strange, unfamiliar place with the wheezing and a fever and a snotty nose, and the book was the only thing that had stopped him crying.

As Brax continued, I hung on every word. “I walked over, and as she kept reading out loud, she reached into the baggie, pulled out a half of her sandwich, and handed it to me.”

“What kind of sandwich was it?” My dad gave a little chuff. Because he already knew the answer.

“Almond butter and strawberry jam,” I replied with a little shrug.

My dad flashed a knowing smile—because how many of those had he made for me in my lifetime? “That’s my girl,” he said with a wink.

I thought I was the captive audience, but when I looked at my family, they were all totally swept up in the story.

“I guess I made a face,” Brax said, “because I’d never had almond butter before. But that night, it tasted like prime rib.” As my family laughed, his gaze strayed to mine and held. “That’s how I knew Mia was not just a competent resident. She’d shown me that all night. But now I saw she was also kind.”

Our gazes locked. How did he do it? His sappy story had held my entire family spellbound and made my limbs suddenly turn to warm molasses, all the clinking silverware and murmuring fading around me as I felt that same relentless connection surge between us.

Such a simple story. But he told it in such a way that he had me believing that it was fricking love at first sight.

Geesh.

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