Quarantales: The Complete Contemporary Romance Box Set, page 2
I’m about to chastise him about this ongoing issue again but I stop when I see the letter on top of the pile. It’s the only one that’s not a bill. And the address is handwritten…to me. From an R. Smith from Pinewood, South Dakota.
Smith. That’s my mother’s maiden name, but also pretty common. And South Dakota? Who do I know in South Dakota?
Maybe it’s one of the other Queen America contestants. Though, I barely remember saying more than a few words to Princess South Dakota five years ago when I competed in the national pageant. Or maybe it’s one of the nurses I used to work with at Raines Jewish before I moved back home to Guadalajara?
Or maybe it’s a certain exchange fellow whose name also began with R? The one who’d once admitted that he had twelve names, not the usual three. He had claimed it was a long boring story and he would prefer if I just called him Rhys.
A memory of him hits me without warning. Us tearing each other’s clothes off in the on-call room. Too desperate to make it all the way to the bed. Him pushing down my scrubs and taking me right against the door….
“I thought you said we were going to be late!”
I glance up to see A at the back door of my Honda Civic, waiting for me to unlock the car.
And even though it’s only in the very low forties temperature wise, it feels like my body’s burning up with fever for reasons that have nothing to do with the virus currently sweeping the nation. God, what is wrong with me? It’s been three years already. Why can’t I just forget him?
I shake my head at A and stick the mail pile into my purse.
“See this is why I have to move with you guys to Pittsburgh,” I say to A. “How were you planning on surviving on your own at college when you can’t even remember to bring in the mail?”
He shrugs and I sigh.
My friends Billie and Gina hadn’t been so sure about my decision to move to Pittsburgh with the twins, but mornings like this prove my decision to go with them is totally right. A and E need me, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to be there for them.
It’s just too bad nobody’s answered any of the rental ads for the back house I’ve put up all over town. Dad left the house to me not my stepmother—thank goodness, but it’s one of the nicer ones in our mostly agricultural and working-class town. That means it’s going to take a while to sell, especially right now during a nationwide pandemic. So I’ll definitely need the extra income renting out the back house could bring in for our move.
E lets out an aggrieved huff in the passenger seat. “There’s only three stoplights on the way to Guac High, but I swear we’re hitting every one.”
A, who’s scrolling on his phone in the back seat says, “They’re saying the governor’s about to give a press conference about the coronavirus. Do you think he’s going to tell everybody they have to close the schools?”
“That’s the rumor,” I answer. “But you never know.”
Many school districts and most of the colleges in Missouri had already closed, but Guadalajara was one of the districts still holding out.
“If they do, I hope they re-open in time for the spring musical,” E says, wringing her hands in the front seat.
I pull up in front of the red brick and stone building where a couple of hundred high schoolers are gathered waiting for the first bell. “We’ll see, honey.”
“Good-bye, dear Cynda. Love you!” E says. She gracefully slides through the passenger side door while her brother clambers out of the back seat.
“Love you too,” I call after the both of them, even though A just got out like I was his chauffeur.
They walk together towards the stone steps only to split into separate groups of their theater and nerd friends.
It’s funny, I think. If this were a play, they’d get cast as polar opposites. E could play the popular high school girl role easily with her long, wavy hair and creamy brown skin with makeup perfectly applied to hide her freckles. Meanwhile, A would definitely be chosen as the band nerd with his chubby waistline and 365 day affinity for cargo pants from the Sears big and husky line. Yet, they would never be cast as twins.
But that’s what they are, and nothing says that more than the lengths they went in order to attend the same school. My heart constricts as I drive away. It had been my father’s dying wish to see them thrive, and I’m going to make sure that happens. It’s my dream to see that they are as loved and well taken care of as I was growing up with my mom and dad.
Which means I have to rush back across town to my job in downtown Guadalajara. Our house is actually close enough to walk to main street. My dad used to walk to work every day, rain, snow, or insanely humid shine. However, the detour to the high school means not only do I have to drive to work today, but I’m going to be late.
Just as I’m halfway to the office, the phone rings. It’s Dr. Haim. Probably wondering where I am. But I can’t pick up the call because I forgot my headphones at home and it’s against the law to talk or text while driving.
So I let Dr. Haim’s call go to voicemail with a silent apology for being late. Again. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to get the twins to the bus on time.
If it was anybody else, I’d text him at the next stop sign. But Dr. Haim tosses his personal phone into his middle desk drawer when he gets into the office every morning and only uses his landline.
So at the next stop sign, instead of texting, my eyes wander to the letter sticking out of my purse along with a bunch of bills. The letter from R. Smith. My belly flutters and my heart twists just a little bit.
It’s probably nothing. But for some reason, I can’t stop glancing at it as I drive toward the office. If I weren’t so late, I’d pull over and read it right now.
But I am late, so the letter will have to wait.
When I get to the office, I grab my purse and immediately jump out. Only to nearly scream when I see myself in the window’s reflection. My straightened hair which I’d pulled into its usual long ponytail extension this morning now has tufts sticking out and there’s ash all over my face!
What the hell? Why didn’t E or A tell me I looked like a hot mess, not the former Princess Missouri the town takes such pride in?
Wiping the soot away as best I can, I set my phone to vibrate, then race into the practice. No waiting patients. Thank goodness. I head directly to Dr. Haim’s office to apologize.
“Cynda, there you are,” the doctor who replaced my father says when I push open his door. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with you all morning.”
“Sorry, Dr. Haim. The twins missed the bus and I had to drive them to school. And I didn’t have my headphones, so I couldn’t call back and tell you I was running late.”
His gray brows crease in a distracted frown and he adjusts his wire-rimmed spectacles over his long nose. “Oh, Cynda, it’s okay. I just wanted to give you some warning before telling you about a very difficult decision I made over the weekend. You see, I received an offer for my practice and after much thought, I decided to sign the deal and take early retirement.”
My stomach drops. “You sold my dad’s practice? But why?”
Dad had left me the house but strangely he hadn’t made any arrangements for the practice, so it had gone to my stepmother. Luckily she had no interest in dealing with the actual sale and had let me handle it.
I’d picked Dr. Haim to take over my dad’s clinic and he’d assured me that he was in it for the long run. He’d agreed to all of my conditions and had even hired me as his nurse to prove how dedicated he was to preserving my father’s legacy.
“I know this must come as a shock,” Dr. Haim says, his dark brown eyes somber. “But it was a very good deal and it will give me the chance to retire much earlier than I originally had planned.”
I shake my head at him. “You’re only fifty-two. Why do you need to retire now? Especially when so many people here depend on you—”
A terrible thought occurs to me, remembering the last doctor who surprised me with an out-of-the-blue retirement announcement. “Please tell me you didn’t sell my dad’s clinic to one of those McMedicine franchises like DBCare. You promised me you’d never do that.”
Dr. Haim holds up his hands defensively. “And I kept that promise! My buyer is a single male doctor, like myself. In fact, let me introduce you to your new boss.”
The door I’d only halfway opened obscures the view of the guest chair in front of Dr. Haim’s. I don’t realize there’s someone there until he extends his hand toward it.
Cursing myself for not fixing my ponytail before I came in, I frantically wipe at the soot on my face. This is not a great first impression for the boss I’m about to meet.
But remembering all my pageant training, I take a deep breath and step forward the rest of the way into Dr. Haim’s office with a bright smile and one hand extended.
Only to stop when I see the man sitting in the chair.
My heart thuds, then free falls to my feet.
Everything stops.
Everything fades away.
Everything but the man sitting in front of me.
It’s been three years but I recognize him immediately. From the slick russet brown hair to the direct steel-grey eyes.
Rhys.
The Fine Prince…
Dr. Prince to anyone who wasn’t an ER nurse in the Raines Jewish Emergency Department and didn’t love 90’s sitcoms.
The last time I saw him had been at his trendy Central West End apartment with its view overlooking Forest Park. He’d been regarding me like a king on his throne as I slunk out the door with my overnight bag.
“You may go home this weekend, but when you return, come straight back to me.”
But I’d never seen him again…until now.
“What…what are you doing here?” I demand lowering my hand. I’m too shocked to be polite.
But Rhys stands up like a proper gentleman. And dear God, he’s even finer than I remembered. His dark brown curls are no longer tousled but slicked back. He has a beard now, but somehow his jaw actually appears sharper than before, his grey eyes even more intelligent.
He’s wearing a suit instead of scrubs and a white coat, but I can clearly tell he’s been hitting the gym since I saw him last, not the carbs. Unlike me. I’ve put on at least fifteen pounds, but he’s lean with muscles that fill out his tailored suit.
He regards me for one cold and stiff moment, before saying, “Hello again, Cynda.”
He also still has that sexy English accent, which makes his greeting sound about a thousand times more polite than mine.
Until he also says, “You’re fired.”
Chapter Two
Three years ago
“Red Alert! The Fine Prince is here. I repeat. THE FINE PRINCE IS HERE!”
The alert from the Emergency Department Nurses’ text stream came through on the Apple Watch Daddy got me a few Christmases ago. And it was promptly followed by rows of eggplant emojis from several of my fellow ER nurses.
I let out a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes. I liked a hot piece of eye candy just as much as the next overworked nurse. But these heifers were acting so thirsty.
“So you don’t think I should use my Princess South Carolina scholarship money to get a degree in accounting?” a hurt voice asked.
Dangit! I’d forgotten I was on a three-way FaceTime call with my best friends Billie and Gina. Cursing that stupid message for distracting me, I turned back to the phone in my hand.
Billie was staring up at me from her screen, looking self-conscious bordering on crushed. And Gina, who as usual, was decked out in a Beyonce-level blonde weave, was shaking her head at me. I could almost hear her silently asking me, “What the hell? You know how sensitive Billie is!”
I grimaced. I had what my mother used to gently call, “ER Nurse qualities.” I could be way too direct and plainspoken on and off the hospital floor. I’d done my best to cover up all that attitude when my mom was alive. But in the two years since she died of cancer, I’d been reverting more and more to my natural state. The gracious beauty queen had faded away along with my mother and the real me, a tell-like-it-is nurse had taken her place.
But Billie and Gina have been my best friends ever since we all competed in the Queen America pageant two years ago. They’d been the only two other Black women in our class that year, and though none of us had won, we’d always said our instant friendship was worth more than any crown.
We tried to talk on FaceTime at least once a month. And since they were both on East Coast time they went out of their way to accommodate my hectic ER Nurse schedule. Yes, I like to tell it like it is, but I’d never mock either of their dreams.
“Sorry, that eye roll wasn’t meant for you,” I assured Billie. “I got distracted by this stupid text that came through on my watch about this hot doc all the nurses are slobbering over. They call him ‘The Fine Prince’, and everybody’s been acting crazy stupid about him ever since he came through for this fellowship.”
“Ooh, tell us more about The Fine Prince!” Billie demanded. “He sounds a lot more interesting than my accounting degree.”
“No, trust me, it isn’t,” I answer with another eye roll. “I already have to put up with the other nurses talking about him all the time. Let’s talk about accounting. Right Gina?”
“Sorry, Cynda, I’m on Billie’s side,” Gina answered, her southern accent honeyed and sweet. “All of us, including Billie, know she’ll make a great whatever she wants to be.”
“Aw, thanks, Gina!” A bright smile lit up Billie’s entire face.
It’s a sweet friendship-affirming moment for one whole second, but then Gina says, “Now spill the tea on this hot doc of yours.”
“He’s not mine,” I started to answer.
But Gina blew right through my point. “Plus, I want to live vicariously. If I even look sideways at another man, it’s a huge fight with Tommy.”
I frowned. Gina had only started dating Tommy, a sergeant with the Jonesboro PD a few weeks ago, and he was already telling her she shouldn’t look at other men? “How does that work with you being a stripper?”
There was no judgment from me about Gina’s current career. She was doing what she had to put herself the rest of the way through Emory part-time after not winning the America Queen pageant—unfortunately, her Princess Georgia scholarship money hadn’t been nearly enough to cover the prestigious university’s cost.
But I didn’t see how her fledgling relationship would work if this new guy of hers was too jealous to even let her look at other men.
Gina’s gorgeous face crinkles as she waves a perfectly-manicured hand dismissively. “It’s fine. He knows I’m just working when I’m at Magic Peaches—I mean that’s where he met me. But when I’m with him. He wants me to only be with him and not thinking about any other guys. That’s all.”
In the other FaceTime screen, Billie twisted her lips.
And I said out loud what we were probably both thinking. “That sounds controlling AF!”
“Yeah,” Billie agreed. “Are you sure this guy is a match for you, Gina?”
“C’mon guys, I was just making a little joke,” Gina said with an exasperated shake of her blond mane. “He’s great. He buys me presents and he can be so sweet. It doesn’t matter if sometimes he gets jealous.”
“It doesn’t?” I sucked on my teeth, because, “If a guy tried to catch salt like that with me, I’d be like deuces.”
“Or if he ate off-brand Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies,” Gina replied, throwing me an exasperated look.
Okay, that had actually happened a few months ago. An EMT I was dating tried to offer me one of those foul Mrs. Freshley Oatmeal Crème Cookies the morning after first sex. There was no second sex. “I mean those things are just gross.”
“How about the murse you dumped because he said ER was better than Grey’s Anatomy?”
“Shonda’s show is clearly superior!” I shot back.
“Remember the vegan?” Billie asked, jumping on Gina’s bandwagon.
“That is a very aggressive decision to make in St. Louis,” I answered, my voice whiny and defensive. “And it made it so hard to eat.”
“Then why did you dump that perfectly nice firefighter who ate too much meat?” Gina asked.
“Who only eats at steak houses?” I asked back.
“Ooh! Ooh! Remember the lawyer she ghosted because he didn’t vote for the right judge?” Billie asked Gina.
Gina’s eyes flare comically. “I forgot about that one! Like president or governor, I can understand. Maybe even the mayor. But who stops dating someone because of what judge they voted for in the election?”
“If he’d voted right, a Black woman would have had a chance of making it onto the Missouri Supreme court!” I insisted.
Gina shrugged and shook her head at me like she was trying hard not to laugh. “I’m just saying my standards and your standards are on two different levels and I’m fine with that. Because my level isn’t located in Crazytown. I mean how many guys have you been through in the last year?”
I rolled my eyes. And this time it was definitely aimed at my two friends. “Twelve. I’m not tracking it or anything.”
“Twelve, seriously?” Billie asked, her eyes huge. “That’s a lot.”
“Okay, thank you, math whiz,” I answered. “Yes, you should definitely go to accounting school.”
“Ooh, will The Fine Prince be lucky number thirteen?” Gina asked.
“In what universe is thirteen lucky?” I asked my overly optimistic friend. “And no he won’t. Yeah, he’s stupid hot and has an English accent, but he’s totally stuck up. He barely ever looks at me, even when we’re face to face, talking about a patient. From what I’ve seen, he only flirts with White girls. So even if I wanted to date him—which I wouldn’t, given the aforementioned lack of diversity in his flirt game—he probably wouldn’t be into dating me.”
“He has an English accent?” Billie and Gina ask in unison.
Apparently, that was all they heard.
