Page 14 of His Last Shot
I smile. “Your face lit up when you said all of that.”
“I guess I was right then. So tell me, why do you want to be a nurse?”
I can’t tell him the full reason. But I will tell him enough. “I want to help people. And I know that’s a generic answer, but it’s true. When people are sick, they need comfort, hope, and compassion. Healthcare workers are some of the best. It's people, selflessly helping people. We don't have enough of that in the world today, ya know?” Excitement is building in my chest as I continue, and the words spill out in rapid succession. “I want to provide support to someone when they are in their darkest hour. Give them just a glimmer of hope or comfort, you know? Plus, I love medicine. I love it so much that I’m willing to pay someone to teach it to me. Like, how crazy is that? Late night study projects, cramming for tests, then taking care of my patients with integrity. It all sounds so … exhilarating.” I stop, catching my breath.
His dimples pop as he studies me. “What?”
“Your face lit up.”
“Oh, my gosh.” I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed. Or hide the enormous blush that I’m sure is creeping on my cheeks. Rough, warm hands, calloused from years of hard work, close over mine, their unexpected gentleness a stark contrast to their texture. His pressure is soft but firm, guiding my hands downward.
I’m forced to once again gaze into his hazel eyes. “Plus, you were rambling. Do you do that a lot?”
I chew on my cheek. “I tend to … when I get nervous or excited about something.”
During our conversation, we have inched dangerously close to one another. His eyes dart back and forth between mine, full of a mix of temptation and uncertainty. Deliberately, he raises our hands to his mouth, his breath misting in the chilly air as he blows on them. The hot mist seeps into my skin, and a shiver runs down my spine because,oh, my God. “Your hands are cold,” he whispers, his words ghosting across my skin as he blows on our hands again.
Well, that is literally the only cold thing on me right now because a fever is permeating through my whole body. Our fingers interlace, the warmth of our skin a comforting contrast to the cool air as our faces inch closer, anticipationthrumming between us. “I really want to see you again, Rachel,” he confesses. My skin itches with uncertainty.
“You know where to find me.” The mutual vapor from our breathing dances and intertwines as his eyes briefly land on my mouth. Closer, closer, closer still. “What are we doing?” I ask, even though I know what’s going to happen. And I’m powerless to stop it.
“I don’t know.”
He knows.
On instinct, our eyes close, and the featherlight touch of his lips reaches mine. It’s brief, passionate, and oh, so intoxicating. I know this is a terrible idea, but my body didn’t get the memo. Every nerve is humming, coming alive with only a brush of his lips. Everything is reacting as if this is the most epic kiss in all of human history. My breathing stutters in my lungs, my stomach bottoms out, and my head becomes an inferno.
Pretty sure this is the best peck of my whole life.
God, what am I doing?
That thought is exactly what I need to break this spell. I gasp as I jerk back, my heart hammering in my chest.I can’t do this to myself again.
His eyes pop open at the broken connection. “Rachel, what’s wro—”
“I’m sorry, I need to leave,” I mumble, shrinking away, my eyes darting from his, his cologne suddenly too strong. The confusion I sense from him hangs heavy in the air, a palpable tension. I attempt to stand, my movements jerky as my joints scream in protest, my body a stiff, weathered wooden board.
He immediately follows and stands way faster than me, offering me his hand. I take it as he wraps his fingers around my wrist. Wincing as he tugs me upward, I try hard to not let the pain show on my face. He’s observing me like I’m a wounded, scared animal. “Rachel, I’m sorry, did I do something?”
With a dismissive wave of my hand, I lower my head to the truck bed. “No, no. I’m sorry. I just need to go.” The memory of his lips against mine, soft and firm, floods my brain. I press my fingertips to my mouth, desperately trying to wipe away the lingering sensation. With a sharp shake of my head, I need to banish the moment to the recesses of my mind. A long shot, a Hail Mary pass—anattempt that probably won’t work. “It’s late, and you probably have to get to work tomorrow. It’s already”—I glance at my watch—“oh, geez … three in the morning.”
His eyes brim with such sadness that my heart aches just looking at him. “I meant what I said. I would love to see you again.” His offer is right there, so tempting. But I can’t, so I state the obvious. To both of us.
“Johnny, we are fifteen years apart.”
He shrugs carelessly. “It’s just a number.”
With a soft sigh, the blanket slides from my shoulder, the coolness of the air replacing its warmth. “Not to me,” I admit. Gingerly, he pulls the heavy wool back up. The tenderness of this loving gesture is making what I must do incredibly hard. The possibility of starting something with Johnny is a mountain reaching to the clouds. Out of reach and too difficult to climb. “I can’t, Johnny. I’m sorry.”
He lets out a slow puff of air and nods. “Okay, fair enough. I will respect that.”
With little to no difficulty, he hops out of the truck. Lowering my body, I sit on the edge of the hatch, his hands wrapping around my waist, the cool metal scratching lightly against my clothes as I slide down.
He doesn’t let go, and we stand motionless. Close. Our eyes lock. “Let me walk you to your car,” he whispers, releasing his hold on me while securing the blanket in place, his arm slung around my shoulder.
A gesture full of concern.
Ten whole steps are all it takes to reach my car. With a gentle click, he opens the door, the quiet hum of the night buzzing along. With a hushed “thank you,” I slip the worn blanket from my shoulders and hand it to him, the familiar texture comforting even as I let go. Casually, he slings it over his arm as I slide in and start the car.
