I smiled at him before I told him, “I can’t exactly plant a bomb in his car.”
Shy looked down at the meat, that muscle moving in his jaw, and I knew he was calling up his memory banks to ascertain precisely how to plant a bomb in Dr. Dickhead’s car.
I buried that in my pit of denial too.
“Shy,” I said quietly, and he turned from the sink. He came back to the counter in front of me as I explained, “I knew this was the gig when I took it. It isn’t a secret doctors can be dickheads. They don’t warn you in the textbooks in nursing school, but word gets around. I’m lucky, all the other doctors I work with are great, always have been, even in nursing school. It’s just him. There’s always one.”
“You don’t eat shit, baby,” he told me.
I licked my lip, his eyes dropped to my mouth, that muscle ticked in his jaw again, and I buried that instantly in my pit of denial.
“Life can be shit, Shy, so unfortunately sometimes you have to eat it,” I told him.
“Right, correction,” he returned. “You eat shit until you’re done eatin’ shit and then you find a way so you don’t eat shit anymore.”
I grinned at him. “Okay, how’s this?” I began. “I eat shit until I’m done eating shit then I go to the hospital administrator, share my concerns in an official way, and hope.”
Shy’s hands were forming patties while his eyes remained on me and, again, I knew he didn’t agree with my solution.
When he didn’t say anything, I continued, “Then, if a miracle occurs and he’s prompted to move on, life will be breezy and I’ll smile and laugh while ruining dinner rather than ranting and raving. Work for you?”
“Yeah, sugar, works for me,” he muttered, and I didn’t bury in my pit of denial how much I liked it when he called me “sugar.” This was mostly because it was too big to fit in my pit. And that pit was dug deep, not because I was burying stuff deep, but because Shy gave me so much to bury.
He jerked his chin in the direction of the hall and ordered, “Go, change out of your scrubs. I’ll deal with this.”
“Righty ho, biker boss,” I mumbled, grinning at him, grabbing my beer and jumping off my stool.
I was nearly to the mouth of the hall when he called, “What are we havin’ with this?”
I stopped and looked at him. “Store-bought potato salad and chips.”
“Chips?” he asked.
“Chips,” I confirmed.
“You got potatoes?” he asked, and my grin became a smile.
“Only because you bought them for me the other day,” I answered.
“You got oil?” he went on, and my smile got bigger.
“Only because you bought it for me the other day.”
“Then we’ll have fries,” he muttered to the patties.
“Fries?” I asked, and his eyes came back to me.
“Fries,” he answered.
“Homemade fries?” I sought added information.
“You got potatoes, oil, and a knife. All you gotta do is cut ’em up, fry ’em up, and, if you’re feelin’ feisty, season them.”
“FYI, biker boss, I’m feelin’ feisty,” I threw out my thinly veiled order.
Shy grinned as he put the patty on the broiler pan and turned toward the sink, murmuring, “My girl’s feelin’ feisty, she’ll get seasoning.”
I buried how that made me feel too. Even so, I still strolled to my bedroom smiling.
I was changed into an old Mötley Crüe tee and cutoff jeans, and still smiling when I moved back toward the kitchen.
Shy was giving me back me. He was guiding me to healing. He was keeping me company in a way I liked. He treated me like me when I needed it, and he treated me as fragile when I needed that. He listened to me moan about work. He stocked my cupboards. And he made me homemade fries.
Seriously, I could love this guy.
I hit the kitchen, and Shy had the oil going and a small mountain of sliced potatoes on a cutting board. I walked to the fridge, got us two fresh cold ones, and put one on the counter beside him, then I moved around the bar and hefted myself up on a stool.
“Thank you for bringing me back to me.”
Yes, that was what came out of my mouth, and I knew my words weren’t a figment of my imagination (unfortunately) when his eyes came to me.
“Say again, honey?” he asked.
It was out there, I had to go for it. And anyway, this was Shy. He’d proven over the last two months he could take it, take anything from me and handle it with care.
“I’m coming back to me,” I told him. “And you’re helping me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been me, just me. I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to realize that even before Jason died, I was burying parts of me.”
Shy held my eyes, something working in his I didn’t quite get, but he didn’t speak, so I hurried on in case he got the wrong idea.
“Jason didn’t want me to bury it, just so you know. He wasn’t that kind of guy. It was me who buried it. All me. Now, looking back, I’m wondering if it would have surfaced. I’m wondering if he worried about it. I’m wondering if we might have—”
“Stop that, babe,” Shy commanded quietly and I blinked.
“Pardon?”
“Way you say it, you were into that guy and he was into you. Don’t ask questions that will never have answers. You’ll drive yourself crazy with that shit. Just remember you were into him, he was into you, it was all good, and don’t f**k up good memories with questions that have no answers and never will.”
He was right. Totally.
My head tipped to the side and I felt my eyes go soft when I asked, “How’d you get so wise?”
“Had a good teacher,” he answered.
“Your dad before he died?”
“My dad before he died and your dad when I found him.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
It was not lost on me that Shy liked my dad, he respected him, and I loved that because that was how I felt about my dad. Obviously more, since he was my dad, but I still loved it that Shy felt the same.
Yes, I totally could love this guy.
“You’re done rantin’ and got nothin’ to do but sit there and stare at me,” Shy began, “haul your ass off that stool, come around and help me with the fries.”
I was done ranting and it would probably burn out my retinas if I stared at him too long, so I grinned at him, hauled my ass off the stool, rounded the bar, and helped him with the fries.