Page 26 of One Last Rodeo

There’s something about what Jensen’s going through that I understand. Losing the thing that makes you feel alive, even temporarily, is brutal. I know that kind of grief. I lived it when I walked away from surgery. Identity and career are a tangled, messy knot. And though he'll be back on a wild animal in a week or so, I'm sure he's disappointed.

I sink into one of the wicker chairs, letting my shoulders finally drop. Jensen takes the seat across from me, his long legs stretching out like they’re aching, bumping lightly against the base of the unlit fire pit between us. He moves like his body is held together by grit and tape, like he’ll fall apart if he stops.

I noticed the other scars on Jensen's chest when I operated on him. The faded lines. The old bruises. The marks left behind long before he ever landed in my OR. It's probably not something I'm supposed to pay attention to. But I notice everything. I have to.

Every surgery starts with a map. I catalog every mark, every vein, every place I can cut while doing the least amount of damage. It's my job to leave people better than I found them. The world isn't nearly so careful. Wild animals don't care what they leave behind. Neither do most men when they're hurting you.

Looking at Jensen, I can tell he knows that too.

“Welcome. Can I get you two something to drink?” our server asks politely as they slide up to our chairs.

I open my mouth to order my usual glass of red wine, but something in me rebels. This whole job—this entire rodeo adventure side-quest—is supposed to shake me awake. Push me off autopilot. That's what Hayes said it'd do for me, and I'm resisting it at almost every turn.

Maybe that's why my ex cheated on me. Because I was boring and predictable. He could order my meals at restaurants, order my wine without ever asking me what I wanted. He knew my routine so well that he could sneak around and have a full-on affair without me ever noticing or catching him because I was like a robot caught up in my predictable world.

I know it wasn’t my fault he cheated.I know that.But I can’t help turning it over in my mind anyway. I can't help but wonder if I'd been a little more spontaneous, I might have realized a lot sooner what was happening directly under my nose.

Perhaps whiskey isn’t the most medically responsible choice, but neither is sitting in a spiral for the rest of my life being unhappy with where my choices have gotten me.

“I’ll try a whiskey sour,” I hear myself say.

Jensen’s brows shoot up so high they nearly hit the brim of his baseball cap. I guess the side effect of me doing somethingspontaneous is Jensen going into cardiac arrest. He shakes his head and chuckles when the server turns to him for his order.

“Water’s fine.”

When the server walks off, we fall into our familiar staring contest. Except… it isn’t uncomfortable for me or him. At least I don't think it is.

Tonight, I let myself look at him. Really look. The strong jaw, the sunburned cheeks, that small crease between his brows that shows up whenever he’s thinking too hard. The way his hair curls around the bottom of his cap attractively. How his hazel eyes look almost green in the softer lighting...

“Do I need to go find the nearest defibrillator? You look like you’re going to have a heart attack,” I say.

His mouth cracks into a smile. “I love when you make heart jokes.”

“Do you ever drink?”

He shakes his head. “My surgeon told me it wouldn’t be wise after a complicated heart surgery, so I’ve refrained ever since. Don’t miss it much.”

“Your surgeon sounds like a smart one.”

He snorts. “Humble too. But the best. She has every right to tell me what to do, and I'll listen to her from now on.”

"Not your friends or your coach?"

He shakes his head. "Just my surgeon."

"But not about giving up riding?"

A small, sad smile fills his face. His voice is rougher when he says, "Not about that."

The server drops off our drinks, placing my whiskey sour in front of me with a smile.

“Look, Doctor Alba,” Jensen says quietly, leaning forward. I hold up a hand to stop him because I might be determined to keep this professional, but it's after hours, and there’s something about tonight that has me wanting to forget that I’m only his doctor.

“You can call me Catalina when we aren't working together.”

He gives a short nod. “I want to apologize for not listening to you about riding tonight and my shoulder.”

I don’t respond. I just let the silence stretch.