Full Package

“I know,” he says with a wide grin. “You can barely tell it’s there.”


His girlfriend sets a hand on his shoulder and gazes at him adoringly. “It’s the perfect amount of rugged, sexy scar,” she says sweetly, then dusts a kiss on his cheek. She turns to me. “And thank you, Doctor. You really did an amazing job stitching up Kevin. You can hardly tell.”

“Excellent. That’s my job. To make my work invisible.”

“Invisible Man,” Kevin says, like he just coined the moniker for a new superhero. He clears his throat. “We wanted to get you a little thank-you gift. For taking such good care of me. And for your suggestions. The table, but also another one you gave us. We took you up on it, and we hope you like it, too.”

My eyebrows rise in curiosity.

Cassidy hands me a greeting-card-size envelope. I slide my thumb under the flap and open it. Inside is a white business card, along with a gift certificate for a cooking class. Enticing appetizers and alluring desserts.

I crack up, remembering our conversation on the exam table when I encouraged him to take a cooking class. “Well done, Aquaman. Well done.”

Kevin smiles widely and holds his hands out in a sheepish shrug. “Doctor’s orders. Far be it for me to defy them.”

“You’re a good man to follow them.”

“And listen,” he begins, adopting a more serious tone.

I tilt my head, waiting.

His blue eyes meet mine. “There’s something else I need to thank you for.”

I furrow my brow. “What’s that?”

But when a siren blares, and the tell-tale sign of an incoming ambulance screeches outside, I say, “Sorry, but that’s my cue to go.”

We say a quick good-bye, and as I rush back into the ER, I make a hasty pit stop at the waiting room desk. A bleached blonde with tired eyes looks up at me. “Yes, Doctor?”

I nod at the sick toddler. “Make sure the kid gets seen as soon as you can, okay?”

She nods.

I head back to the madhouse, taking a quick glance at the gift along the way. It’s a cooking class for two. I stuff it in my pocket, because we have a fifty-year-old man suffering from a heart attack coming in. This time, we save a life.



After a busy afternoon with no break in sight, I finish my shift and find a text from Wyatt.

In your hood. Grab a brew?

I text back with a yes, and we settle on a nearby location—Spencer and Charlotte’s bar, The Lucky Spot. Spencer’s behind the counter this time, and he tips his chin in greeting as we stroll in.

He pours some beers and places the glasses on the counter with a clang. “So a doctor and a carpenter walk into a bar…”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah? And what happens next? The bartender serves up a pale ale and a punchline?”

His green eyes study Wyatt and me. “Yes. Because want to know what happens when you cross a surgeon with a carpenter?”

“Oh, tell us, tell us,” Wyatt says, mocking Spencer as he chimes in like an excited kid.

“I don’t know . . . but I’d hate to see what they do with a saw,” he says, then slaps his palm against the counter to punctuate his joke.

I groan. “Really?”

“That’s the best you can do?” Wyatt asks.

Spencer points at my handyman friend. “I thought I nailed that one.” Then he turns to me. “But not as well as Chase would have . . . killed it.”

“Oh ha ha ha. I try to limit my kills,” I say, lifting my glass to take a drink.

Spencer preens and blows on his nails. “All right, assholes. That’ll be fifty dollars.”

“You’re cheap tonight,” Wyatt remarks as he takes out his wallet and pretends to fish around for a big bill.

“Just kidding. Your money’s no good here. For some reason, I let you two dickheads drink for free,” he says, then heads to the end of his bar to take care of customers.

Wyatt and I shoot the breeze for a few minutes as we work on our pale ales, and then he levels me with an intense stare. “What’s going on with Josie?”

I nearly spit out my drink.

The brother of the woman I’m trying desperately not to fall harder for laughs and claps my back. “Hard time holding your liquor?”

“Um, no, wrong pipe,” I lie.

“Seriously, man. I’ve been thinking about our talk at Joe’s Sticks. Is she doing okay on the whole dating scene?”

“Yeah. She’s doing great,” I say, fibbing outrageously and hating it.

“Dating any jackasses? Or have you weeded them all out?”

Briefly, my mind wanders back to the guy who made the gerbil comment, then to the idiot who tried to pry into her private life online, then to the one who started it all—Damien—by fooling my girl.

My girl.

I scrub a hand over my jaw. She’s not mine. I can’t think of her that way. I raise my glass. “You’ll be glad to know I’ve safely kept her away from any and all jackasses.”