Uh huh,” Jack said.

He nodded as his patient, a seventy-two-year-old local woman “born and bred in Genoa” continued to ramble during the assessment.

“And, good heavens, that girl he married? Wouldn’t know how to marinate a turkey if her—”

“Mrs. Miller, if we could get back to your symptoms. Where, exactly, does it hurt?”

“Oh, somewhere around here,” she said, and gestured loosely at her hip, pelvic, and abdominal area.

“Would you say it’s chronic? Acute?”

“Once you get to be my age, it’s just normal. You know, when I was younger, I could…”

Jack went about the cursory examination using her physical responses to gauge the problem. He started to zone out and thought about Addy as his years of training took over. She’d surprised him last night with dinner.

The aroma had hit him even before he’d opened the front door. A succulent meat, roasted vegetables, and a hint of something sweet in the oven.

“What did you make?” he asked, and stopped in the doorway when he walked in.

She’d picked up a small dining table and had draped a cream-colored linen tablecloth over it. A bottle of wine chilled in a silver bucket. From across the pony wall bar that separated the living room and kitchen, he’d watched her bustle about with her work face on.

“Lahontan cutthroat trout,” she said with a smile. “It’s a local fish, recently restocked after commercial fishing almost decimated the population starting in the thirties.”

“It smells amazing,” he said.

“I hope it tastes as good. Go ahead, sit,” she said. “Open the wine, dinner will be ready in ten.”

“Can I help with—”

“No, seriously, I got this. I do this all day. You have to be tired. If you want to help, you can pour me a glass, too.”

He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and leaned over the bar to watch her work. Addy had been barefoot, and her curvy thighs shot out of worn khaki shorts she’d rolled up to nearly the crest of her legs.

The kitchen was hot, and the baby hairs that framed her face clung to her dewy skin.

Curves for days, he thought. The tan skin of the tops of her feet were in stark contrast to the pearly white of her at-home pedicure.

He watched as she expertly pulled the seasoned vegetables out of the oven and moved a homemade pie to a rack for cooling. The fish came out last with a gust of rich, buttery aroma.

As she plated their dishes, the steam rose to her face. She whipped out a kitchen towel and cleaned up the plates.

“They don’t need to look pretty,” he said.

She glanced up at him. “Why not?”

“I guess you’re right.”

They toasted as they sat across from each other. His mouth had watered as he cut into the flaky, moist fish.

“That’s a good sign,” she said.

“What?”

“Silence at the dinner table.”

“Sorry,” he said, his mouth full of the melting fish.

“No, I mean it. It means the food’s good.”

“It’s amazing,” he said. “I have to admit I’m surprised.”

“Why? I told you I liked cooking.”

“Yeah, but a lot of people say that. Doesn’t mean they’re good at it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, but there was a sparkle in her eye.

Jack had looked down and realized his plate was wiped clean.

“More?” she asked. “There are some vegetables left. Or dessert.”

“If you’re asking me if I want vegetables—which were great, by the way—or that pie you baked, I’m going to have to go with the latter.”

She’d smiled, pushed her chair back, picked up both their plates and went into the kitchen. He listened as she pulled out the plates that had appeared in their cupboards the day before and cut into the pie.

“Whipped cream or no?” she’d asked, and leaned against the frame between the kitchen and living room.

A wicked smile played at her face. She held out a bowl of homemade whipped cream, put a finger into the thick cloud of it, and tasted it while she held his gaze.

“Wanna try? Tell me if it’s sweet enough.”

Okay, maybe that part didn’t happen. But if it did—

“Dr. Stratton?” Mrs. Wood’s milky blue eyes probed his.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

“I—”

She suddenly leaned over and vomited blood all over his shoes.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and his training kicked into overdrive.

One of the nurses arrived at his side.

“Free fluid in the abdomen,” he said curtly. “Get Philip—er, Dr. Ruiz.”

Philip came through the curtain at a brisk clip and helped prep the patient for surgery.

“I got it,” Philip said under his breath to Jack.

Philip’s specialty was surgery, and if he was available he always got priority in the ER. Jack didn’t complain—as he moved deeper into internal medicine, he considered this jaunt in the ER a kind of tough initiation with a touch of hazing.

Something to get through before he dug into what he really wanted to do. At least, what he really wanted to do if medicine was the only option.

He stepped back from the exam table and looked down at his shoes as Philip and a nurse wheeled Mrs. Wood to the OR.

“Dr. Stratton?” One of his favorite nurses, Loretta, pulled open the curtains and gave him a kind smile. She handed him a wet wipe and a towel.

“Thanks,” he said, and leaned against the counter to wipe off his shoes.

“You bring a spare pair like I told you?” she asked. She crossed her hefty arms across her even more ample chest.

“No, mum, sorry. I forgot,” he said.

She tsked at him.

“I’ve been working the ER for thirty years,” she said. “You oughta listen to me when I tell you to keep a spare pair of shoes here.”

He grinned up at her, taking note of how her hair wrap perfectly matched her scrubs. How she always wore a different set of oversized, sparkling earrings every day.

“Yeah, you got style, girl,” he said. “I could use some lessons.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Save it for the wifey. Those charms of yours don’t work on me.”

As she turned and left, his thoughts went immediately back to Addy.

Stop it, he told himself. All this fantasizing at work is what got this blood and vomit on your shoes to begin with.

Was his increasing interest in Addy getting in the way of his work? It was the third time he’d been caught zoning out while thinking about her instead of actively engaged in working on a trauma.

She was proving to be a distraction, that was for sure. And that was a lot more than what he’d bargained for. Jack looked at his watch. His shift was up in ten minutes, and there were no signs of a new patient being assigned to him.

Jack started down the hallway toward the staff lounge—only to have Rosalie emerge from the restroom and almost walk smack into him.

“Rosalie, hey,” he said. “How’s—how’s it going?”

“I’m about to start a fourteen-hour shift,” she said. “It’s going as well as it could be. How’s your… wife?” she asked.

“Addison.”

“I know what her name is.”

“She’s fine, thanks for asking,” he said.

Rosalie nodded and looked away.

Jack smiled, amused. He hadn’t thought their little deception would work so well, but Rosalie clearly struggled with the whole thing. Rosalie was tough, always had been.

That was partly what had initially attracted him to her. He never thought he’d be able to get under her skin so well, and so easily.

“Well, I should let you get started,” he said.

“Jack—I, this is awkward,” she said. “I think, you know, I have five minutes. Let me just get this out.”

“Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

She looked up and down the hall, but it was deserted save for one janitor who mopped at the far end.

“I’m… well, it’s pretty obvious I’m not happy about the whole thing.”

“About me and Addison?”

“Yeah. I’m bitter, I admit it. It’s hard, you know? I mean, it kind of came out of nowhere. But I’ve been working on accepting it. I’m trying to let it go. If we’re going to work together, I don’t want to have this cloud hanging over us all the time.”

“Yeah, I agree,” he said.

“So, that’s why I was thinking… why don’t we double date?”

“What? You mean, Addy and me, and you and…”

“Just someone I recently started dating,” she said with a shrug.

“Oh. Who’s the new guy?” he asked. He could have kicked himself for his interest.

Rosalie shot him a look. “You aren’t allowed to have an opinion about who I date. You’re married.”

“I know that,” he said. She had him there.

“So? Double date tomorrow night? It’s probably one of the few times neither of us have the night shift.”

“You know my schedule?”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“It’s posted in the break room,” she said. “I looked when I got here so I could ask you.”

“Oh.”

“So, dinner tomorrow? Maybe at seven?”

“You’ve got a date,” Jack said.

She smiled and started toward the ER.

As Jack grabbed his bag out of his locker and headed toward the Jeep, he ran over the conversation with Rosalie in his head.

Was she up to something? Or being genuine? He couldn’t tell. The Rosalie he knew, or thought he knew, back in the Congo wasn’t underhanded or manipulative. At least she hadn’t seemed to be.

Maybe she’s for real, he thought.

As he walked into the condo, he saw Addy as she prepped for work.

“Dinner shift?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t work those.”

“Dawn’s sick,” she said. “I have to cover for her.”

“Are you working tomorrow night?”

“No, morning shift. Why?” she asked as she pulled her hair into a ponytail.

“We’re going to dinner with Rosalie and some guy she’s dating.”

“We’re what?”

He shrugged. “She asked, said she didn’t want things to be weird at work so this is supposed to smooth things over.”

“Okay, sounds fun,” she said.

“I wouldn’t use that word.”

“Come on. I thought that’s what this was all about? Getting to our exes. What better place than dinner?”

He watched her as she left, purse slung over one shoulder with keys that jangled in her hand.

Sounds fun?

It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it. The response was like what a girlfriend would say. And as much as he was attracted to Addy, he had to remember that this whole marriage thing was just to make Rosalie jealous.

How am I supposed to remind Addy of that? he wondered. Especially without making her mad—and still convincing her to put on a good show tomorrow night?

Jack poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat on the patio to mull over his approach.