Chapter 1
Chapter 1 Makena
Six Years Ago
“Oh my gawd,” Bailey says, sliding into a chair across the breakroom table from Nat and I. Both of us look up. “Did you see the new trauma doc?” Bailey dramatically fans herself.
“Which one?” I ask. We’ve gotten a few new ones.
“It ain’t Dr. Klinski,” Nat mutters, around the giant bite of brownie she just took. “He looks like an off-brand Santa fucked a Shit-zu.”
Bailey snorts, slamming her hand over her mouth, trying not to spew the sip of soda she just took. I laugh. Trust Nat to come up with the most insultingly true description of someone.
“No, the one that started yesterday.” Bailey wheezes.
Both of us shake our heads. We were off yesterday.
“Shaw,” Bailey says, taking another swig of her drink. “and he is really fucking hot.”
Nat looks at me and grins.
“I’m not looking.” I mutter.
“You say that cause you haven’t found one you like yet.”
I have rules about who I fuck. Standards – ones that Nat follows too. No random hook-ups. STD testing comes first. Defined expectations and boundaries. Monogamy. And we don’t double-dip.
She’s in a situationship with a cop, so if I want this new doctor, he’s mine.
But I just got my heart broken. Not really looking for something, not even just a fuck buddy.
I change the subject.
“Mom wants to know if you’re coming for Christmas.”
“If I’m invited.” Nat says, her eyes sliding away, her voice a little tight.
I huff.
Every year, we do this. My mom thinks Nat will eventually get tired of spending Christmas with our ‘boring’ family and every year, Nat thinks we’ve gotten tired of having her.
Next year, I’ll just skip this shit and lie to them both.
“You know you are,” I snort, annoyed. “Mom already bought the ingredients for the chocolate fruit pie thing you love.”
Nat’s head pops up from the article she’s reading JAMA. “The one with the brined sugar cherries?”
I nod. “She’s making two. One to eat Christmas Day, and one to send home with you.”
“Then, yes, I’ll be there.” She says, a little quickly
I laugh. Nat can be bribed to do just about anything if you offer her a dessert.
Suddenly, all of our radio crackle, jarring with the overhead announcement. “Trauma Alert, Bay 3, ETA 4 minutes.”
Male, 23, GSW, left thorax. The vitals follow, buzzing through my radio’s earpiece. Both Nat and I jump up, and make our way to Bay 3, Nat brushing brownie crumbs from her scrubs.
We snag PPE and suit up, the lead x-ray vest over my sterile gown already making me sweat.
Nat’s second Charge. She slides behind the raised counter, giving her a view of the enter trauma bay, and starts roll call, as she types something into the computer.
“Tech?” She barks.
“Me.” Kevin raises his hand. He’s already setting out everything he’ll need to start IVs, draw labs, and hook up blood, if needed.
“RNs?”
“Me” I say at the same time as two others.
“Kena, meds, Andrew, bleeding control, Beth, vitals.” She looks around. “Who are my docs?”
A lithe woman, her gray hair in a tight bun, steps froward, tying on her gown. “Dr. Shaw and I.”
I turn slightly – and suddenly find myself staring into the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His mask hides the rest of his face, but I can tell he smiles by the way his eyes crinkle.
Even in the shapeless PPE gown, I can tell he’s built. Broad-shoulders, tall, he moves like man who knows his strength, who’s comfortable with his power.
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Dr. Shaw,” He says. His voice is low and rumbly, with that amused tilt in his tone that tells me he knows the effect he has on woman. I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat pooling in my belly. We stare at each other for a moment.
“You’re in my way.” I scowl as I point to the Pyxis, the medication dispenser.
He steps aside, still watching me with those stunning blue eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just lifts a gloved hand and gestures like, after you.
I mutter a thanks and punch in my code. The Pyxis clicks open. I’m hyper-aware of him behind me—of the way he doesn’t move, the quiet weight of his attention, the faint scent of clean soap, coconut, and whatever cologne he’s wearing under all that PPE.
The trauma doors slam open and I shift into what Nat calls “Badass RN Mode”.
The stretcher wheels in fast—Medics yelling vitals, blood already soaking the patient’s side. A young guy, shirt cut away, pale, groaning, eyes fluttering. I tune out everything but numbers and priorities.
“On my count, 1-2-3.” We shift the patient from the stretcher to the bed. I listen to the vitals, letting them run through my brain, calculating what medications the doctor might order.
I glance up at Dr. Shaw. He moves with this terrifying calm, like the world slows down around him. He’s already at the patient’s head, voice low and firm as he checks airway, pressure, breath sounds. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t panic. He just handles it.
He calls out the medications. Nat confirms them, charting. I have them ready to push the moment the words come out of his mouth. I predicted his orders correctly, down to the dosage.
Fifteen minutes later, the patient’s stabilized, and we prep him to roll to surgery. Shaw is talking to the surgeon on call.
I’m checking the IV pump, making sure that everything is running. I’m also avoiding eye contact, and very aware that my pulse is still higher than it should be.
“He’s looking at you,” Nat says under her breath, as she checks the number on the bag of blood we’re pumping into the patient.
“He’s probably pissed because I didn’t wait for him to tell me the meds before I hooked them up.”
“Doesn’t look pissed,” She says, turning towards me.
“What does he look like?”
“A fucking wet dream.”
“Natasha!” I scold, trying not laugh.
“What?” She looks at me with innocent eyes. “What does it matter what he looks like, anyway? I thought you weren’t looking.”
“I’m not,” I huff, wishing I didn’t sound so peevish. “If you want him, you can have him.”
Nat shakes her head. “Not my type.”
“Right,” I say, flatly. “You like them dark and broody, with no personality.”
“Don’t need a personality in bed,” She says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Just a good dick.”
Before I can respond, Shaw comes back, all business. We roll the patient out of the trauma bay and down the hall towards the OR.
We peel off our PPE and the x-ray vests as we walk back, Nat asking about what she should get my parents for Christmas.
She stops at the charge desk, and grabs the rolling cart with her computer on it, as I check my patient charts on another computer, mentally cataloging what I need to do.
When I straighten, I see Shaw standing near the Attendings room, talking with Dr. Klinski.
Now devoid of the PPE, it’s even easier to see the way his scrubs pull across his shoulders, how the fabric clings to the line of his back. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing his forearms—tanned, veined, strong. His hands are expressive as he talks, gesturing calmly, the same kind of controlled precision he used during the trauma.
I don’t mean to stare. I just do.
“Kena,” Nat murmurs beside me, dragging her rolling desk toward the trauma bays.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“Am not,” I lie.
“He’s literally just standing there existing and you’re two seconds away from eye fucking him.”
“Shut up.” I stomp around the counter, heading for the PAR like I’m in desperate need of supplies. I don’t. I just need space. Air. Less muscles under tight scrubs.
I rummage through the supply shelves, filling my thigh pockets with saline flushes, pretending my heart isn’t still throwing little punches at my ribs.
Then I hear it—his voice. Closer this time.
“Makena, right?”
I freeze. Because that is absolutely not in my head.
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s leaning against one of the shelves like it’s built to hold him. Arms crossed now, ankle hooked over the other. Effortlessly casual, but I’ve worked in trauma too long not to see the sharpness behind the stillness.
“Yeah,” I say cautiously, turning around slowly. “That’s me.”
“You always pull meds before the doctor gives the order?” He says. The words sound arrogant, but the tone is more curious.
“I know my meds.” I say, warily. I’ve been a nurse from only about a year, but I’m smart, and I work hard. I don’t like when doctors act like they’re smarter than nurses, or smarter than me.
“It was damn good.” He nods. “Probably save 2-3 minutes by not waiting.”
There’s a pause. His eyes drop lazily down my body, then back up to mine.
Fuck, am I blushing?
“Thanks,” I mutter. Another pause. “Is there something else you need?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Just wanted to compliment you. Good to know I’ll be working with you in the trauma bays.”
“Yeah, won’t the be fun,” I say, flatly.
He chuckles. Fuck, if that sound doesn’t turn up the heat in my chest.
“See you around, Makena.”
He says my name like he means to remember it.
And damn it if that doesn’t feel dangerous.
Because I have rules.
And he looks like a reason I might break them all.
