She wasn’t disappointed. Nope. She wasn’t.
Definitely not.
And yet the sound of her internal derisive snort still rang in her ears as she hurried to her car.
Fucking Jet Hansen.
Four
Jet
He resisted the urge to chase after Trix.
On one hand, she wasn’t in her car, so the threat of him being run over was minimal. On the other, there were no shortage of sharps—syringes and scalpels came to mind—within reach, and she was well-versed in using them.
But that wasn’t why he stayed in the break room, why he walked over to the water dispenser and downed a paper cup full instead of following her, why he stowed his valuables in a locker then his lunch in the fridge.
Because he couldn’t risk getting attached again.
It was bad enough that she was in the same state, in the same hospital.
But he’d been burned by the flame that was Trix Donovan once, and that was enough.
Sighing, he stretched his neck, wondering how in all of the hospitals in the world, how after his stretch of doctoring all around the globe he’d ended up here. With Trix.
Some might say fate or kismet.
Others might say hell.
If the way his cock had twitched just watching Trix, he was definitely going with hell.
And with that fateful thought, Jet straightened his shoulders, pushed his dick and its twitching in the vicinity of the gorgeous brunette down, and focused on the work. Just like he’d done for the last three years.
Just like he was going to continue to do.
Seven in the morning came slower than he expected. Then again, the department hadn’t been particularly busy, and he wasn’t used to working nights.
Or working in a hospital setting rather than in the field.
One of his other physicians on shift that night had assured him the calm wouldn’t last, that there would be a full moon, or it would rain and then people would be flocking to the ED, that in the meantime, he should enjoy the peace.
Jet wished he could.
But the itch under his skin wouldn’t abate.
It wasn’t like he’d been constantly busy while in Lebanon, Haiti, or Syria, though there had been days on end where he hadn’t taken a break, where he’d worked until he could barely see straight . . . and still, the itch had been there.
Missing something.
Missing someone.
“Fuck,” he muttered, knowing that he needed to adjust back to civilian life, to being back in this setting. He’d burned out, needed to live some place with running water and electricity and a good mattress.
Maybe he’d go back.
Maybe he’d serve for shorter-term deployments or in more domestic emergencies.
But for now, the idea of just being home was paramount.
Perhaps then he’d be able to move on with his life. He wasn’t a perennial bachelor by choice. He wanted to be settled, to have a family, with kids and maybe a dog and cat.
Not a picket fence.
But he’d take a wrought iron one.
Grinning at his idiotic and sleep-addled mind, Jet made his way to his car. He’d put an obscene deposit down for a condo near the hospital, one that would have been impossible to make without the money his parents left him.
Money he’d promised himself he’d never use.
Money he’d used anyway.
But then again, a lot of his principles had changed over the last six years. He’d been young, only a few years out of residency, ready to go out and save the world, all while shucking the rigors of his rich, privileged life—never mind that his rich, privileged life was what had enabled him to graduate from medical school without the crippling debt that some of his colleagues had. Now he was nearing forty—thirty-eight, if he was being exact—and he’d spent a long time chasing some utopian dream, only to find that it didn’t exist.
No matter how far he ran, he was still himself.
And now, wasn’t that a melancholy thought for so early in the morning?
Cool.
Sighing, he tossed his bag onto the passenger’s seat and got into his hybrid. The car still smelled new, and it was. Another purchase from his trust fund, another ding against his conscience.
And yet, he’d needed a way to get to and from work.
So once again, convenience had given way to holding the line of his ethics.
Add self-disgust to the melancholy for a lovely mix of morning emotions.
“Fuck,” he muttered, turning on his car and backing out of the spot. “I need to get some sleep.”
Sleep away the memories. Sleep away the urge to go back. Sleep away everything but the work.
Five
Trix
She was face down in bed when her phone rang.
“Why?” she groaned, fingers fumbling on her nightstand as she tried to grab her cell. It buzzed out of her grip several times before she forced her head up, used her eyes to locate and her hand to grab it, then collapsed back onto her pillow and brought it to her ear.
Where it rang again.
“Fuck,” Trix muttered, flopping over to her back, swiping her finger across the screen, and then bringing it up to her ear again. “’lo?” she grumbled.
“Trixie,” Heather said brightly. “How’s work going?”
That was both way too much cheer and way too much volume for this early in the morning.
She grunted in reply.
Which was a mistake. She should have sat up, blinked away the sleep, and reassured Heather everything was going fine. But instead, all Trix did was pique her sister’s mother hen tendencies.
Her sister was recently married—well, she’d gotten married about two years ago. But now that she was happily hitched to Clay, and even Trix could say he was a good man, Heather was determined to see everyone around her happy.
If only she’d stayed abroad, then she would be safely out of Heather’s crosshairs.
But Trixie had wanted to come home.
She’d missed northern California, missed its rolling hills and giant redwoods, missed the beaches and the mountains, missed San Francisco and its restaurants, Napa and its wineries, the little beach towns dotted across the coast.
After nearly a decade of escaping her family, she’d wanted to come home.
Not to her family, she thought with a shudder. But to California.
Heather’s voice rose in volume, jarring Trix out of her thoughts. “Did something happen at work? Who do I need to kill?” She laughed. “Or sic Bec on, anyway.”
Bec being Rebecca Darden, a famous employment law attorney and one of her sister’s best friends. Friends as in plural, as in Heather was part of a group of cackling, intervening, happily paired women who thought nothing of sticking their noses into someone’s business.
Into her business.
“I’m fine,” Trix hurried to say, now sitting up and blinking the sleep from her eyes. “We had a couple of people call out sick last night, so I worked some overtime.” She yawned. “I only just got home.” Overtime both had the purpose of padding her bank account and helping to pass the hours.
So, she hadn’t seen too many of those wonderful California features yet.
But she’d planned on it today, or at least driving to the coast and listening to the waves.