Page 19 of Under Southern Stars
Sophia Mitchell is sitting alone at a table for two, and she’s absolutelydevastating.
Gone are the scrubs, the severe ponytail, the charge nurse armor. Her dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders. The black dress—Christ Almighty, that dress—shows off shoulders I’ve never seen before, the elegant line of her throat. She’s fidgeting with her menu, checking her phone, looking toward the door every few seconds.
She’s…nervous?! Sophia “Ice Queen” Mitchell is nervous aboutourdate?!
There’s just no way.
I take an involuntary step backward. What the hell am I doing? I’m punching so far above my weight, I’m in orbit. She’s brilliant, beautiful, raises a teenager, runs an entire emergency department without breaking a sweat. And I’m…what? Some rich boy playing at being working class? A thirty-two-year-old who disappointed his entire family to ride around in an ambulance?
She deserves someone established. Someone who hasn’t spent years hiding from his real life. Someone who doesn’t have to borrow Rodriguez’s decent shirt, which is atleasta full size too small, because all hisownshirts are either uniforms or ancient band tees.
My phone buzzes. Message from her: “No rush. Got us the good table.”
The good table. Like this is something she’s thought about. Like it matters.
I’m about to turn around, text some excuse about being held over after all, when she looks toward the door again. Can’t see me through the glass, but something in her expression stops me cold.
She looks…hopeful. Vulnerable. Like maybe she’s fighting her own doubts too.
Don’t be a tosser, McKenzie. You transferred stations for this woman. You convinced her to say yes. You don’t get to bottle it now.
I take a deep breath, push through the door before I can think too hard about it.
The hostess starts toward me, but I’m already moving. Sophia hasn’t seen me yet—she’s looking down at her phone again. Gives me a moment to really see her. The curve of her neck. The way the candlelight catches in her hair. How she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
“Sophia?”
She looks up, and those blue eyes go wide. For a second, neither of us says anything. Just…look.
“Sorry I’m late.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Had to beg Morrison to cover the last hour. Cost me three shift trades and my dignity.”
“You look…” She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks.
“Like I own real clothes?” I manage a grin, slide into the seat across from her. “You look…”
Incredible. Stunning. Like every fantasy I’ve had about you since that first radio call, only better.
“Yeah,” is what comes out. “That dress is…yeah.”
Smooth, McKenzie. Real smooth, mate.
She’s still staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. Like maybe she had her own moment of doubt waiting here. Like maybe we’re both in over our heads.
“So,” I say finally. “This is weird.”
“Extremely weird.”
“Want to get wine and pretend it’s not?”
“God,yes.”
And just like that, the spell breaks. She laughs, I laugh, and suddenly we’re just Sophia and Jack, figuring it out as we go.
But that image of her waiting at the table, beautiful and nervous and real, is burned into my brain forever.
Way out of your league. But here you are anyway.
Sometimes that’s all you need.
