Page 26 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“I didn’t think it was that funny,” he says.
“Oh god, it was hysterical. That was so bad it was good, Jesse.” I sigh. “So. What’s the reason for your call?”
“I can’t just want to hear your lovely voice?”
I’m melting. “No. You can’t.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “Too bad, because it’s true.”
“Careful, Jesse, you keep talking to me like that, you’ll end up trapping yourself a lonely forty-year-old divorcée with a broken heart and an overactive imagination.” And a sex drive that’s currently stuck on turbo, but I manage to keep that part to myself.
“Maybe that’s what I’m after.”
“Maybe you’d be biting off more than you can chew.”
“Maybe I can take really, really big bites.”
I have to actually fan my face. “Jesse. What do you want?”
“You, here, in those booty shorts and that tank top.” A pause. “Or even less. I’d settle for less, in this case.”
“Jesse.”
“Hey, you’re not the only one with an overactive imagination. You’d have to spend a week in church to make up for the things I’ve imagined about you.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe. Oops; I didn’t mean to say that. “You have no idea,” I say, louder.
“Maybe we should get together for drinks and compare fantasies,” he murmurs.
“Compare, or act out?” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Did I SERIOUSLY just say that to him?
He growls, and I hear a thump, as if he slammed his fist against the wall. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Imogen. For real.”
I struggle to bring this dangerous conversation back to safe, solid ground. “You didn’t call me just to verbally torture me, did you?”
“Who’s torturing who, here, Imogen?” he asks. “But no. I talked to Dr. Waverley a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And, if you have time, she wants you come in for an interview.”
“She what?” I squeak. “When?”
“I was under the impression that she meant right away. Like now-ish.”
“I’m still in my scrubs and I don’t have my resume ready.”
“I think she just wants to meet you, have a little conversation. Nothing formal. She told me to give you her direct number so you can give her a call if you’re able to come in.”
“Um. Okay.”
“I’ll text you the number after we hang up.”
“Okay.” My throat is thick. “Jesse, I—”
“Thank me later,” he interrupts. “Hint—visual stimulus counts as thanks, in my book.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay, message received.”
So, I hang up with Jesse, spend a few moments calming my nerves, and then call the number Jesse sent through.
It rings four times, and then a high, firm, authoritative female voice answers. “This is Dr. Waverley.”
“Hi Dr. Waverley, this Imogen Irving. My friend Jesse said he spoke to you?”
Her voice softens immediately. “Ah, Miss Irving, yes. A lovely young man, that Jesse.”
“He sure is.”
Dr. Waverley laughs. “Oh, I bet you agree! I don’t mind admitting that I hired James and his crew based on what may be less than professional reasons.”
“Having met both James and Jesse, I can see why.”
Her tone goes back to businesslike. “So. You have a BSN from the University of Illinois, and experience in the U-I-H ICU, I understand?”
“Yes ma’am. I did my residency in the ICU there, and stayed on for seven years after that, before transitioning to a private practice.”
“May I ask why you left the ICU?”
I only barely hold back a sigh of resentment. “I got married. The hours were pretty intense, it was a lot of stress, and I wanted kids.”
A pause on the other end. “Something tells me this is a sensitive subject, so I’ll hold the rest of my questions. What I really want to know is, would you be willing to return to the ICU?”
“I think I would, yes.” I think back to the bustle and the chaos and the intensity of the ICU, and feel a little thrill run through me. “What I mean is yes, ma’am, I definitely would.”
“I understand you recently left your employer.”
“Ah, yes, I did.”
“Suddenly?”
“Yes, I must admit it was sudden. But I just—it was something that I’d needed to do for a long time.”
Another pause. “Well, Miss Irving, I’m in desperate need of experienced nurses in my ICU, and I happen to have a block of time free at the moment. Would you be able to come in for a more in-depth conversation?”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“I’m not—I mean—I’m still wearing scrubs, and I haven’t updated my résumé in years. I quit this morning, if you’d like the honest truth.”
She chuckles. “All the better. I’ve found it’s best to interview people when they’re not ready for it. You get more of a person’s true self, rather than a nervous, practiced facade. Just come in, we’ll have a chat, and barring any kind of unexpected surprises, you’ll be newly employed before the day is done.”
“Um—that sounds amazing. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
After the routine goodbye pleasantries, I hang up.
And now I have to calm my nerves all over again.
