Page 68 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
The blood drive is in the very last room, and I swear I can feel it glowing from here.
“Stop craning your neck,” she says without looking back. “They’re not going to put your name on a plaque, hero.”
“I mean, they could.” I fall in beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Beck Morgan, model citizen. It has a nice ring to it.”
Her mouth twitches. “Mm. We’ll see if ‘model citizen’ still applies when a nurse points a needle at you.”
“I’m not afraid of needles.”
She scoffs at my defense. “You almost passed out when I had to pull a splinter out of your palm with tweezers.”
“That wood shard was basically a javelin,” I protest. “And you used pliers the size of a tractor. Totally different category.”
She finally looks up at me, the smile she’s fighting softening her whole face. “Whatever you say, cowboy.”
We roll up to the registration table where a volunteer named Irene slides us two forms. Behind her, a plate of cookies and tiny juice boxes are arranged with military precision. Irene has the calm, no-nonsense vibe of someone who could get a stampede organized into single file.
“First time donating?” she asks.
“For me, yeah,” I say, trying not to sound too proud. “I’ve been, uh... working toward this.”
Quinn’s hand finds my elbow and gives me a reassuring squeeze. Pride flickers across her face before she smooths it away and taps her pen against the form. “He’s been clean and consistent,” she says, her voice bright, professional. “He’s ready.”
My throat works around a thank-you that I don’t quite say. Instead, I scrawl my name, answer the boxes, pretend the pen isn’t slick in my fingers.
Quinn flips to her form with precision. She always does this—locks in, focuses hard enough to cut glass. If she’s nervous, she hides it under efficiency. I mistake it for the usual perfectionism and lean into teasing; it’s what we do.
“Grade my handwriting?” I ask, crooked grin ready.
She doesn’t look up. “You want honesty or support?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Honesty: a toddler with crayons could do better. Support: look at you filling in all the right boxes.”
I snort, relief loosening the knot under my sternum. “I like support.”
“I know.” Her eyes flick up, warm, then back down. “Drink some water. We don’t need you crumpling like a lawn chair.”
“I told you, I’m not—“
”—afraid of needles. Yes, yes.“ She reaches into her tote and hands me a bottle without breaking stride. “Hydrate, model citizen.”
I take it, because arguing with Quinn is like arguing with the tide. Across the lobby, I clock the donation area: partition screens, vinyl recliners, nurses moving with practiced calm. There’s a low buzz of conversation, a few laughs. It’s normal and safe, reassuring me that I’m not here to take anything from anyone. I’m here to give something back.
Quinn finishes her form with a decisive dot of the pen and clips it to the board. “There.” She inhales, shoulders lifting, then turns to me and taps the final box on The List with the back of her pen. “Last item. After this, we’re officially done.”
“Done done?” I lean in conspiratorially. “Like gold star, parade, certificate?”
“We’ll negotiate your parade,” she says, deadpan, but the corners of her mouth are losing that battle again. “Maybe a cupcake.”
“Two cupcakes if I don’t faint.”
“Three if you don’t flirt with the nurse.”
“I would never,” I say, over-solemn. “I’m deeply committed to one terrifyingly organized woman.”
Her laugh slips out, quick and gorgeous, and it hits me in the ribs. She’s been my North Star through every hard left turn of the last two months, and I owe her everything good happening to me.
