Page 12 of Merry Mayhem
“Here's hoping nobody's gifted a chainsaw in the next few hours.” Julia bumps me with her shoulder as we stand at the desk, entering in our notes. “Got big plans for your days off?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Just spending it with my brother. And one of his new friends.”
It feels odd to refer to Cooke as Gavin's friend. But I'm not sure how to categorize him for people who don't know him, and it's simpler to leave it at that.
“That sounds really nice, actually,” says Julia. “My husband and I are driving a few hours north to stay with his whole family. There's so many of them. It's almost overwhelming sometimes. He's got eight siblings, and they're all married. Most of them have kids too. It's going to be crazy.”
“A good kind of crazy, though,” I offer, and she nods, a glint in her eye.
“It's a good kind of crazy. Until someone eats all the apple pie. Then it quickly escalates.”
We share a brief laugh, and then we're both off to our rounds, checking in on patients. There's little time for us to talk, just a few more short moments that we can joke back and forth. It's nice, though. She's a coworker, but I feel almost like I'm making friends.
As I finish up my notes on the last patient’s chart, ready to hand over to the next nurse, I get an alert from my phone. A text appears.
Cooke: Corey and his parents said I can sleep over at his house tonight. Please, please, please!
It's so completely him to ask like that - not a question, really, just a statement expressing his clear wish to do something with his friend.
It makes me smile, even as I wince a little. I'd planned for the two of us to spend time together as Christmas got closer. But I don't want to cheat him out of such a kid thing to do.
Gretchen: Of course. Have fun. Send me his parents’ names and phone numbers so I have them if needed. Also the address.
Almost instantly, the information I've asked for starts to appear on my phone.
Cooke's comment about Gavin comes back to me. He is a good kid.
Gathering up my things, I try not to think about how lonely the house will feel when I get home. How lonely it will feel allnight. Especially with how perfect it felt just last night. The three of us, making snowflakes, building a fire and decorating the Christmas tree together. That's what I'll be missing.
When I get home, I set my things down, pull my hair out of the ponytail, and let it fall however it wants. I'm contemplating whether I want a shower or a snack when there's a knock on the door.
“Cooke?” I ask when I see him on the porch. “What are you doing here?”
His lips press in a flat line and he looks back over his shoulder toward where his car is parked. I must have passed it when I drove by, my thoughts only on the quiet that waited for me and how I'd fill the time.
“I wondered if,” he stops, and his fist clenches. He's normally so comfortably confident that I'm not sure how to interpret this more nervous version of the man. Rather than interrupt, I simply wait, leaning against the door frame in my scrubs and tired work hair.
“I wondered if you'd like to go to dinner.” He finally gets the words out, and I'm so shocked, it takes me a moment to process what he's said.
A bubble of happiness settles in my chest. “Dinner? Sure. That would be nice. Does Gavin have time before he has to go to his friend's house?”
Silence stretches between us, the moment turning strangely awkward. Cooke shakes his head. “Sorry, no. When we were done scooping snow, Gavin and Corey asked me to drive them so they could do some quick Christmas shopping. Then I dropped them off at Corey's house.”
“Wait a minute. You mean you're here because you want to have dinner with me?”
I hate how breathless I sound at the idea of it, but the thought hadn't really occurred to me. Cooke's good-looking andhas plenty of money based on the few clues I've seen. There must be plenty of women out there ready to snatch this guy up.
“Why wouldn't I want to have dinner with you, Gretchen?” His voice is husky and it makes me lift my eyes up to meet his. To see that unmistakable hunger and intensity in them I'd seen before. This time, though, it's all directed at me. “I like you. You're beautiful. And you've worked hard all day. You deserve a nice dinner.”
That word.
Deserve.
It hits me in the gut. Do I really deserve a nice dinner?
Yes. Yes, I do.
“I'll go change,” I say, opening the door wider. “Please come in and sit down.”
