Page 5

***

Ihad planned to do it on Monday. I drove into town with my words prepared, parked near the hospital, and then realized I was about to interrupt her shift with a personal matter. So I left without going in.

On Tuesday, I saw her through the bookstore window. She stood at the register, a book tucked under her arm. I stopped on the opposite sidewalk, took a breath, then stepped off the curb. A truck passed. But when it cleared, she was gone from the window.

On Wednesday, I wrote down what I wanted to say, but reading it made everything feel worse. I started it with “Dear Lara,” as if I were sending her a generic form letter.

I remember her pulling me back for that second kiss, and for a moment I believe she might forgive me. Then I picture her reading my apology and deciding I’m too much trouble. I hate that I’m letting an imagined rejection decide things for both of us. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to knock on her door.

Thursday brought an ambulance call, and there was no sign of her at the hospital. I helped return the stretcher to the rig and double-checked the straps. Nobody asked why I was quiet—I’m always quiet.

By Friday, I had a jacket-replacement charge from the rental shop and a headache from arguing with myself. I paid the charge. If Lara wants to burn the damned thing—let her.

Saturday afternoon, Julie calls, and the first thing I hear is my niece crying.

“Holt, I think Anna broke her arm. I need you to take us to the hospital.” Julie’s normally confident voice breaks.

“I’m on my way.” I grab my keys and head to my truck, silently hoping Lara will be the nurse to help my niece.

six

Lara

Aweek after the ball, I still have his coat hanging beside my bedroom door. I don’t sleep in it or bury my face in it. Except for the first night, which I am willing to forgive myself for.

On Monday, I expected to see him at the hospital. On Tuesday, I found myself checking the street outside the bookstore. By Thursday, the expectation had started to hurt.

I thought giving him space would help. Now I wonder whether I’ve mistaken one night for something he doesn’t want in daylight.

The attraction hasn’t faded just because I’m hurt. I still remember the warmth inside his coat and how he paused before kissing me, letting me decide. I want that man in front of me again. I want an explanation too.

At work, I don’t have much time to dwell on it. I wash my hands, check the assignment board, and hear a child sobbing near triage.

Holt stands just inside the entrance, a little girl pressed against his side. Julie follows them, carrying a sweatshirt and struggling to untangle its sleeves. The child’s left arm rests awkwardly against her stomach.

Holt looks up, our eyes meet, and his expression answers one question immediately—he remembers every bit of the ball.

Seeing him without his suit should make the evening feel less special. Instead, it does the opposite. I want him in his everyday clothes, his hair a mess from sleep, his soft beard against my cheek. I turn my attention to Anna, where it belongs, but my thoughts of Holt linger.

I rush over to them. “Hi, Anna. I’m Lara. We’re going to get someone to look at your arm.”

“I fell off the bars.” Anna presses her wet cheek against Holt’s shirt, and my heart melts as I picture him comforting our child.

“That looks like it hurt.” I glance toward the triage nurse, already bringing a chair. “Your mom and uncle can stay close.”

Holt helps Anna sit without jostling her arm. His hand cradles the back of her head as Julie kneels beside her.

“She was at the playground,” Julie says, folding the sweatshirt in her lap. “I called Holt the moment she fell.”

I nod, listening to her explanation. Once Anna has a room, the ER doctor examines her and orders imaging. I explain what will happen in words Anna will understand.

Holt sits on the opposite side of the bed while Anna grips two of his fingers with her good hand.

“I didn’t mean to fall.” She looks at him, her mouth trembling.

“I know, sweetheart.” He leans in toward her. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

My throat tightens. This is the voice from the terrace, stripped of its flirtation, but husky—I could listen to it all day.