by Jill Shalvis
She knew he had a big extended family, and that he took care of most of them. He was good at taking care of others, really good. “Who takes care of you?” she asked.
His gaze met hers, warm, curious, probably because normally, she did her best to keep some mental distance between them—it was the only way she knew how to resist him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ask such a personal question.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, pouring them both juice, then sitting on the barstool next to her. Their thighs brushed, and when he reached for a napkin, so did their arms.
“I take care of me.” He turned his head to hold her gaze. “The same way you take care of you. It’s who we are, it’s what we do.”
She nodded. Then shook her head. “Does it ever get to you? Always being an island?”
Reaching out, he brushed the tips of his fingers along her jaw. “I guess I don’t let myself think about it too much.”
“That’s usually my tactic too,” she admitted. “But sometimes it gets old.”
He watched her inhale the food he’d made for her, a small smile curving his mouth. “We could do something about that.”
She nearly choked on a bite of toast. “Meaning?”
He just smiled.
Something low in her belly quivered. A good kind of quiver. One she hadn’t allowed herself much of in a long time. “Um . . .”
“You telling me you haven’t thought about it?”
She met his gaze. “To be clear, by it, you’re suggesting we . . . sleep together.”
“I’m suggesting I’m here to meet any need you have, any time.”
If she thought about that for even another second, she was going to crawl into his lap and wrap herself around him. Instead, she stood up, took both their empty plates and went to the sink with them. She rinsed them and helped herself to his dishwasher, loading the dishes inside. When she turned, he was right there, close enough to touch, and she sucked in a breath. “That was the only need I’m capable of helping you with at the moment,” she said, even as her body vehemently disagreed with her.
Mateo smiled, like no worries. Or maybe because he knew she was lying. “And you?” he asked. “Is there a need I can help you with?”
She had to bite her tongue rather than answer yes, please!
His amusement faded. “Want to talk about last night?”
“No.” Definitely not.
He just looked at her for a long beat. “When you’re ready, then.”
She fussed with drying off his countertop. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Any time.” He gently pulled her back around to face him. “But just so you know, I’m sure we could do much better than breakfast for you.”
Her body, knowing it, shifted against his. “I . . . need to work up to that.”
With a smile, he cupped her face and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “On your time, Charlotte. Always.”
A FEW MINUTES later, Charlotte walked back to her house, carrying one of Mateo’s mugs filled with his own special blend of coffee that might as well have been crack, it was that good.
The sun had risen. Gorgeous but not anywhere close to warm. Snow clung stubbornly to the pine trees and the icy air burned her lungs. She didn’t care because it was still early, and Dr. Charlotte Marie Dixon was leaving a man’s house and she was smiling.
She felt amazing. Absolutely nothing had happened beyond breakfast, but it’d been the most intimate she’d been with a man in years.
When she stepped into her kitchen, she found Jane sitting at the table staring at a small flat box on the coffee table as if it was a coiled rattlesnake. She looked up at Charlotte with obvious relief. “Hey. Where were you? You were off shift an hour ago and your car’s here, but you vanished.”
Charlotte laughed. “Sucks, doesn’t it, the not knowing if someone’s okay?”
Jane grimaced in acknowledgment that she was guilty of not checking in as often as she should. “You’re the responsible one. You’re teaching me, remember? Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you just come from Mateo’s house? From Mateo’s bed?” She eyed the mug in Charlotte’s hands, leapt to her feet, and gasped. “Oh my God, you did!” She hopped up to sit crisscross on the counter. “Tell all. Don’t leave a single thing out.”
“He cleared the snow for us, so I went over there to, um, thank him, and he made me breakfast.”
Jane stared at her. “Are you blushing?”
Charlotte clasped her hands to her cheeks. “No!”
“You are so!” She pointed at her. “He did more than make you breakfast.”
“If I’m blushing, it’s because he made me breakfast and didn’t expect anything more.” And she’d enjoyed herself so much more than she had in a very long time.
“Well, of course he didn’t expect anything from you. He’s Mateo,” Jane said, reminding Charlotte that Jane trusted Mateo, when Jane didn’t trust anyone.
Charlotte gave her a soft smile. “I’m starting to realize that.”
“Tell me the truth. You didn’t go over there to thank him for removing the snow.”
“No.” Charlotte laughed at herself. “I went over there to yell at him. I’d had a really bad night at work. I . . . lost someone. A young woman. Domestic violence.”
Jane let out a soft gasp and slid off the counter. “Oh no. Honey, I’m so sorry.” She pulled Charlotte in for one of those rare but magical hugs. “Are you okay?”
Charlotte held on tight. “Better now.”
“So . . .” Jane’s voice had a small smile in it. “You had a shit night, came home upset, found all your snow gone, and stormed over to yell at our sexy neighbor, and he defused you with his amazing food.”
Charlotte dropped her head to Jane’s shoulder. “Yes.”
Jane pulled back, keeping her hands on Charlotte’s arms, looking into her face. Jane didn’t touch people casually, so whenever she did touch Charlotte, it meant something. This morning, it warmed a part of her heart she hadn’t realized needed warming.
“I like it,” Jane said. “I like him for you.” She then turned back to the table to stare at the box some more.
“What’s that?” Charlotte asked.
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You left it for me.”
Charlotte gave a slow shake of her head. “Not me. Are you kidding? You break out into hives when I give you a present. You went through an entire packet of Benadryl last Christmas.”
Jane frowned. “You’re not playing me? This really isn’t from you?” She opened the box, separated the gift paper inside, and pulled out a sugar plum fairy ornament, dangling it from her finger. “You’re the only one who knows I once dressed up like a sugar plum fairy to go see The Nutcracker with my grandma.”
“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte breathed, admiring the dainty glass ornament. “But no. I’m not playing you. Where was it?”
“At my cubby in the Sierra North clinic.” She eyed Charlotte suspiciously, clearly still believing it had been her. “Who else knows my work schedule? No one.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “Let me stop you right there. When have you ever known me not to write a missive when sending a present?”
“True.” Jane’s shoulders slumped. “But if it wasn’t you, then who the hell left it?”
“I don’t know.” Charlotte moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think the real question is, if it had been me who gave it to you, why would it upset you so much?”
Jane sank to a chair. “I don’t know. Maybe because it feels like the past colliding with the here and now. The past hurts, and I don’t like thinking about it.”
Charlotte touched the pretty ornament. “This memory hurts you?”
Jane blew out a breath. “Okay, no. Not that one. It’s actually one of my favorite memories.”
“Then why don’t you hold on to that feeling whenever you look at it? Trust me, you can’t r
un away from your past forever.”
Jane snorted. “One breakfast with Dr. Hottie Patottie and all of a sudden you’re Dr. Phil.”
“Ha-ha.” Charlotte handed back the ornament. “Is it possible someone from your past left it for you? Like your grandpa?”
“I guess . . . but doubtful. He doesn’t know I’m here.” Jane turned the pretty ornament in the light. “It’s so fragile. I don’t know what to do with it. I’ll end up breaking it if I take it with me when I go.”
“Then leave it here, in your bedroom, for when you come back next season.”
“I don’t like taking up your space with my junk. Plus, you never know if you’re going to need the room for another renter while I’m gone.”
Charlotte’s first instinct was to sigh with annoyance, but instead she took in the anxiety on Jane’s face and ached for her. “There’s always going to be a room for you here. For you and your stuff, Jane.”
Jane stood up. “Don’t say that, because you never know what’s going to happen. Have you talked to Sandra? She wants to extend her stay.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking of buying bunk beds for the downstairs bedroom. Zoe said she wouldn’t mind sharing.”
“You don’t need to spend the money on a new bed,” Jane said. “Seriously. The easier solution is for me to head out early.”
Okay, Charlotte was done with this convo. Spinning on her heels, she opened her junk drawer, grabbed a Sharpie. Without another word, she headed down the hall.
She heard Jane mutter, “What the—” and smiled grimly to herself when she also heard footsteps following after her.
“What are you doing?” Jane asked.
Charlotte uncapped the Sharpie and wrote JANE in big letters across her bedroom door. “Does this make it clear?”
“That’s permanent ink,” Jane said.
“Yes, as permanent as your place is here.”
Jane looked at her. “You do realize that paint could cover it up.”
Charlotte pointed at her with the Sharpie. “Don’t ruin this for me. We’re having a moment.”
“I’m not good at moments.”
“No kidding. Now hush, or I’ll make you hug me again. Maybe even cry too.” She snagged an arm around Jane’s neck and dragged her in close. “Never mind. I’ll hug you.” And she did just that, holding tight while Jane sighed dramatically. “Bad shit happens,” Charlotte said. “To all of us. We’ll deal.”
“You deal better than me,” Jane said.
“That’s because when things get bad, I know I can fly home, where my mom has my name on my bedroom door. It makes everything so much easier knowing I have a room out there waiting for me, always. And I want the same for you.”
“But what if you need the money?”
Charlotte’s throat tightened at the genuine worry on Jane’s face. “I won’t. I don’t rent out my rooms because I need the money. You know that. I need time with my best friend, the sister of my heart, whenever she can get into town.”
Jane looked simultaneously touched and upset. “If I’m your best friend, you’re in trouble.”
Charlotte smiled. “I think I’m in good hands.”
Jane sighed. “You are. You know how I feel about you.”
“Well, I do my best to guess, since you’re such a miser with words.”
“I . . . we’re . . .”
Charlotte raised a brow.
“You’re my person, okay? Happy now?” Jane finally said, and Charlotte felt her eyes sting. She sniffed and Jane stared at her. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”
Charlotte’s eyes filled.
“No. No crying in the hallway!” Jane blinked, her own eyes looking suspiciously misty. “I mean it. You know I have a sympathy cry thing, and you also know I hate to cry!”
Charlotte laughed through her tears. “Maybe I’ve just got something in my eye.”
“Yeah, right.” Then suddenly Jane straightened up like a light bulb had gone off over her head. “Levi.”
Charlotte blinked, confused. “Huh?”
“The present! I think it could be Levi. He’s the one who got me back my locket. And he knows what a sugar plum fairy would mean to me.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. What was he thinking?”
Charlotte watched Jane pace back and forth. “I don’t know about him, but I’m guessing you’re thinking he knows you far better than you’re comfortable with.”
“It’s like he can read me. What the hell is that?”
It was a man falling hard, not that she could say so without freaking Jane out even more. “And you’re not comfortable with that, not even a little bit.”
Jane gave her a “duh” look and Charlotte felt her mouth curve. “You know you have to thank him, right? And a gift with this level of sentiment requires an in-person thank-you. It’s etiquette.”
Jane leaned back against her bedroom door and thunked her head against the wood.
Charlotte knew better than to laugh, but as it was her greatest wish for Jane to find someone special enough to keep her here in Tahoe, she allowed herself a small smile.
Chapter 15
That night, Jane showered, pulled on her fave pj’s, which were an old oversize tee and undies, and went into her favorite thinking position—curled up in her bed under a thick down comforter.
Nothing could get to her in here. Not destructive thoughts, not unhappy memories, not the stress of her job, nothing.
She intended to have a good think. Maybe over whether she was doing the right thing about not contacting her grandpa, letting him know she was around.
But that’s not where her brain took her. Nope, instead it kept replaying snapshots in her head of how she’d felt the other night, making s’mores with Levi. Why had he left her a present when they were only pretending to be involved?
But maybe the better question was, why did she care?
When she opened her eyes again, it was morning. She’d slept the entire night through without waking up racked with anxiety.
What was that?
She had to laugh as she got out of bed. She hated anxiety, but now that it had gone missing for a night, she was anxious about losing the anxiety.
Which settled it.
She’d lost her mind.
She hustled through her morning routine. Then she and Charlotte hit up the diner for breakfast before their shifts. The cook came out and slapped a twenty into Charlotte’s waiting palm before vanishing back into the kitchen.
“He lost a bet,” Charlotte said. “Last week he sliced his hand open when I was here.”
“Wait. You come here without me?”
“No, when you’re busy, I stay at home, frozen in time until you come home.”
Jane rolled her eyes and Charlotte smiled. “Jealous. Cute. Anyway, he sliced his hand wide open. I wanted to stitch him up, but he insisted on using Super Glue because he’s got a needle phobia. I told him it was a terrible idea, but have you ever successfully talked a man out of a stupid idea? No, right? So he found some sort of construction glue and electric tape and told me to pick my poison. I told him that either would land him in the ER with an infection. We bet on it—his idea,” she said, raising her hands like she was innocent. “Not mine. So he Super Glued his hand.”
“And because you can’t help yourself, you took the bet knowing you’d win, and it got infected and he landed in the ER,” Jane guessed.
“Bingo. But don’t worry, I’m putting the twenty into his tip jar when we leave.”
Jane laughed. Charlotte couldn’t resist a good bet that she knew she could win, but she also couldn’t take advantage of anyone—she just wasn’t built that way. “You work in the OR. So how did you find out?”
Charlotte’s cheeks went red. Fascinating. Jane pointed at her. “You and Mateo have been talking.”
“No! Well, not about patients. I . . . um, happened to be with Mateo in the staff room when he was paged, and I might have gone with him to the ER, since
I was having a slow night.”
“Mateo and Charlotte sitting in a tree,” Jane sang. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . .”
Charlotte was head down on the table, ears flaming. “You’re a child.”
“Yep.” Jane stood. “I’ve gotta go and so do you.”
They walked out into the parking lot together. They’d gotten another foot of fresh powdery snow overnight.
“Stay safe,” Charlotte said.
“Always. And right back at you.”
It was a common refrain between them. Jane hit the road heading up to Starwood Peak urgent care and got caught behind a snowplow, which meant she made it to work with barely a minute to spare. She hit the job running and never slowed down.
Starwood was Jane’s least favorite of the five, mostly because it tended to draw the hotdoggers, the reckless, the worst of the weekend warriors—which meant her day was filled with knee, shoulder, and leg injuries. Plus, there was an ever-higher ratio of what she privately called the splat syndrome—when people who weren’t expert skiers or boarders attempted to ski the fresh powder off trail in the trees. Then went splat against those trees.
They could be horrifyingly serious injuries, which meant calling for the helicopter to get them airlifted to either Reno or Davis, depending on how many minutes they had to save them—a grim reality that wasn’t in the glorious, exciting promo ads for Lake Tahoe. The staff often reduced the tension by playing pranks on one another. Last week, Dr. Daniel Briggs, a known asshole to nurses far and wide, had decided he needed his own microwave because the nurses took up too much of their short lunch breaks heating up their food. And no underlings—nurses—were allowed to use his microwave.
For a few days, Jane and the others had debated on a way to prank him without getting caught. They came up with lots of plans, all discarded because Dr. Briggs had been known to get people fired for looking at him cross-eyed.
Charlotte had helped Jane come up with a brilliant plan. She’d changed his autocorrect settings in Outlook, so whenever he typed his title—something he did all day long, every time he entered patient info—his name autocorrected to Dr. Daniel Briggs, his eloquence, master of duck herding, and debater of microwave etiquette.
He’d not been able to point the finger at anyone, so Jane lived to prank another day. And better yet, Dr. Briggs wasn’t on today. But the clinic was unusually cold, and not just because people kept coming in from outside, where the temp hovered around twenty-eight degrees. There was something wrong with the heating system, so she was working in her scrubs with her down vest on top.