Page 35 of No Greater Love
His laugh was genuine, warm, and I found myself studying his profile in the dashboard light. He had good hands on the steering wheel, long fingers, no wedding ring tan line. I'd noticed that at work, of course, but tonight felt different. Tonight I was allowed to look.
"What?" he asked, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just... you seem more relaxed than usual."
"It's the shirt," he said with mock seriousness. "The blue brings out my eyes. Paige told me so."
"Paige has excellent taste."
The honky-tonk was exactly what I'd expected—neon beer signs, sawdust on the floor, the kind of place where everyone knew the words to every song and nobody cared if you couldn't line dance. Perfect for my purposes.
Nate held the door for me, ever the gentleman, and I watched his face as we walked in. He looked... curious. Not uncomfortable, not judgmental, just interested. Like he was genuinely wondering what I was up to.
Good. Let him wonder.
We found a table near the dance floor but not so close we'd get trampled by enthusiastic two-steppers. The waitress—all big hair and bigger smile—took our drink orders. I got a beer, he asked for the same.
"Just one?" I asked.
"Yes, please. Two is my limit." He said it matter-of-factly, without explanation, and I filed that information away for later consideration.
The conversation flowed easier than I'd expected. He asked about my family, and I found myself telling him about being the middle child, about trying medical-surgical nursing first and hating every minute of it.
"ICU was even worse," I said, taking a sip of my beer. "All that monitoring, all those drips, sitting there for twelve hours, watching numbers on a screen. I lasted exactly three shifts before I begged to be transferred."
"But you love the ER."
"I love Fast Track," I corrected. "I know they stuck me there because I was new, figuring maybe I wasn't ready for the acute care side. But honestly? I like the pace. You never stop moving, never get bored. And the patients might seem 'easier,' but that's not always true."
"Like the epiglottitis case," he said, and I was surprised he remembered.
"Exactly. Guy comes in for a sore throat, gets triaged to Fast Track, and I'm the one who caught that his voice was getting muffled. If he'd sat in the waiting room for another hour..." I shrugged. "Dr. Lee nailed the cric, though. Have to give him credit for that."
"Lee's a smartass, but he handled that with swagger," Nate agreed. "Jumped right up on the bed, did the whole thing without flinching."
"Yeah, well, he used to hit on me until I..." I paused, smiling at the memory. "Let's just say he doesn't anymore."
Nate's eyebrows rose. "Should I ask?"
"Probably better if you don't. But he's been very professional ever since."
The band took the stage then—three guys in cowboy hats and a woman with a voice that could make angels weep. They opened with something slow and sad, but by the third song they'd shifted into something more upbeat. The dance floor filled with couples doing the two-step and the Cotton-Eyed Joe.
That's when the magic happened.
The opening notes of "Friends in Low Places" filled the air, and I watched something shift in Nate's expression. His foot started tapping under the table. His fingers drummed against his beer bottle.
"Oh no," I said, grinning. "You know this song."
"Everyone knows this song."
"Not likeyouknow this song."
He was trying to look innocent, but I could see the war playing out on his face. Professional Nate versus... whoever this was who wanted to sing along to Garth Brooks.
Whoever this was won.
When the chorus hit, Nathan Crawford—serious, controlled, military-precise Nathan Crawford—opened his mouth and belted out every single word with a perfect baritone country twang. Not just mumbling along, but really singing, with feeling and enthusiasm and zero self-consciousness.
