Better Than Me (A Remington Medical Contemporary Romance) Page 2

  2

  Jonah Sheridan was screwed six ways to Sunday, and it was only Monday night. But he had exactly one rule for self-preservation, and that was to keep his dance space to himself. A large part of enforcing that rule was to never have a woman—any woman—in his apartment when the sun came up. Hell, if he could possibly swing it, he never even brought them back to his place at all, always pushing for option A when it came down to “your place, or mine?”

  And now Natalie wanted to live with him for six whole weeks? As in, right there in his apartment, her dishes next to his in the sink, her bras in his washing machine, her toothbrush in his bathroom, live with him?

  It didn’t matter that their friendship was platonic, nor that her stay would have an expiration date. Living with someone, even as a roommate, meant commitment, and Jonah didn’t do close.

  He’d learned the hard way to keep his distance, and he wasn’t going back down that road.

  Ever.

  He reached for the affable charm that got him out of ninety-nine-point-five percent of dicey situations. There had to be another viable alternative. He’d just have to help Natalie find it, that’s all.

  “Trust me,” he said, giving up a carefully cultivated half-grin. “I’m the last person you want to stay with.”

  Funny, she looked entirely unconvinced. “Why?”

  Natalie was tack-sharp, so Jonah went for logic first. “I don’t even have a guest bedroom, for one.”

  “You have a den,” she argued, not wrongly. “And as I recall, there’s a futon in there.”

  “That futon dates back to when I was in medical school,” he said.

  “No matter how old it is, it’s better than what I’ve got now.”

  Damn it, that was also true. But speaking of true… “My on-call schedule is crazy.”

  Natalie laughed, the cute, little kind that he’d always found so endearing. “I have one of those, too, you know. Anyway, I sleep like the dead. Unless you do a tap dance on my frontal lobe on your way out the door, I’ll never even hear you if you get called in.”

  Jonah paused. According to the nurses, Natalie was notoriously hard to rouse, and he’d had to wait for her on more than one occasion when they’d shared a ride to the hospital for a shift.

  She must’ve taken his silence as consideration, because she stepped closer to the spot where he stood on the pretty blue and cream area rug placed neatly on the floorboards.

  “Most of the time I’m there, I’ll be sleeping, and when I’m not, I can give you your space. I’ll kick in for food and utilities, and I’ll split chores with you, fifty-fifty.” Her stare glinted, the color of warm whiskey and full of hope.

  It hit Jonah’s chest, center mass. “I’m a terrible cook.” Okay, so it was lame, but he was losing steam, fast.

  “As luck would have it, I’m a great cook. You take dish duty, and we’ll call it square.”

  “You and your parents are tight,” he said, knowing it was a last-ditch, but that it was also her most feasible (and, fine. Only) alternative. “I get that they might hover a little, but they’ve got a nice, big house, and they wouldn’t dream of asking you to do chores or pay for food. You’d be so much more comfortable with them than in my tiny shoebox of an apartment.”

  The breath Natalie huffed out couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a laugh or a sigh. “My parents don’t hover a little. They hover professionally and without remorse. Look”—her expression went soft and serious, something she usually reserved for the parents of a patient who were about to get bad news, and oh, shit, this couldn’t mean anything good—“I know you’ve only lived with one other person, and that…didn’t work out.”

  Leave it to Natalie to be polite about the eleventh-hour cancellation of his high-profile wedding to one of Remington’s social elite. She’d been the only one to defend him after the whole thing had gone tango uniform, even though he’d never told her—or anyone—exactly what had happened that night.

  Jonah needed his default, and he needed it right fucking now.

  “I don’t want to talk about Vanessa,” he said quietly, and, to his surprise, Natalie nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t, either, because this wouldn’t even be in the same hemisphere as that. You and I are just friends, and my living with you would only be temporary. I’m neat and fairly low-maintenance, and I really can cook like a boss. I know you like your space.” It was a euphemism, and if the smile poking at the corners of her lips was anything to go by, Natalie knew it as well as Jonah did. He was a fucking island, and it wasn’t by accident. “So I can totally stay out of your hair if you want me to. But please.” In a blink, her smile disappeared. “I’m begging you. Don’t make me stay with my parents.”

  Jonah’s nice-guy propensity came out of hiding to pick a fight with his defenses, both of them quickening his pulse. His defenses didn’t fight fair, though, reminding him that he had damn good reasons for not being a long-haul guy.

  He opened his mouth to say he was sorry. To tell Natalie, rationally and with good reason, why he just couldn’t let her move in with him for six weeks.

  But what came out was, “Okay. You can stay.”

  Christ, his inner nice-guy was a sneaky son of a bitch.

  “Really?” Natalie let out a gasp that quickly slid into an adorable ear-to-ear grin, and okay, Jonah was going to have to do some damage control here.

  “With a couple of stipulations,” he said, holding up his fingers to count them off. “If you want to watch rom coms or that channel that plays all those gooey holiday movies, you’ve got to do it on your iPad.”

  Jonah knew from experience that she loved both, and with Christmas only a month away, she’d certainly want to mainline them whenever she had down time. But while happily ever after might be on some people’s agendas—and more power to them as long as they didn’t try to convert him to coupledom—he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it parade across his big screen TV.

  “Come on! Not even It’s a Wonderful Life?” she asked, but he stood firm.

  “The only Christmas movie that flies in my apartment is Die Hard.”

  Her hands moved to her hips. “That is so not a Christmas movie.”

  “Take it or leave it, Kendrick. Yippie-ki-yay is all the holiday cheer you’re going to get out of me.”

  Natalie frowned, but didn’t push her luck, so Jonah continued. “I’ll take that you cook, I clean bargain. I don’t mind doing all the dishes, and I wasn’t kidding when I said I can’t cook. No complaining about football or hockey—the Rogues are kicking ass again this year on the ice and I want to watch every game that I can. And for the love of all that is sacred and good, no bras on the shower curtain rod.”

  “Done.”

  His surprise must have stumbled over his face, because she laughed and tacked on, “What? You know I love hockey, too, and after meeting Finn Donnelly over the summer at that fundraiser at The Crooked Angel? I’m all-in for the Rogues. I promised you I’d cook, and the other stuff”—she lifted one shoulder beneath her light pink sweater—“I can stipulate, even if it is kind of Grinchy. So, do we have a deal? I can come live with you until this mess is all fixed?”

  Jonah exhaled. “Yes, we have a deal. My futon is your futon.”

  “Oh, my God, yay! This is going to be so much fun!”

  At the look of pure panic he’d been unable to cage, she sobered and bit her lip. “Actually, no. It’s not going to be any fun at all. It’s going to suck. Hard.”

  Damn it, he laughed. “I don’t think it’s going to suck.”

  “Okay, whew, because I don’t, either,” she said, her grin returning in all its glory. Her happiness was practically palpable enough to grab hold of, and Jonah couldn’t help but feel the tight knot of his shoulders release a bit in response.

  “I’m just not used to living with anybody,” he said by way of apology. “Guess I’ve got to get my head around it a little. But it’s not you.”

  Natalie threaded a groan throu
gh her laughter, reaching for one of the suitcases Jonah had unearthed from her preternaturally tidy hall closet. “If I were a real girl, that ‘it’s not you’ thing would be the kiss of death.”

  Grabbing the second suitcase, Jonah conceded, “Fair enough.” He was certainly no stranger to expressing the sentiment in all of its various forms, and it rarely went over with enthusiasm.

  “Can you take the drawers while I take the closet?” she asked, pointing at the white, vintage-looking bureau paralleling her bed, which was a king-sized brass affair loaded with pillows, and it occurred to him belatedly that he’d never been in Natalie’s bedroom before.

  “Sure.” He shook off the weird, forbidden thrill that had just popped through his veins. Probably, he should’ve passed on that last drink at The Crooked Angel. “And for the record, you’re totally a real girl. Woman,” he corrected.

  Natalie snorted. “You’re really working that Jonah Sheridan charm over there.”

  She waggled her light blond brows at him as she turned toward her closet, but nope. He wasn’t going to let her joke her way out of this one.

  “Just because we’re best friends, that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize you’re pretty.”

  Natalie blinked at him from the threshold of her tiny walk-in closet. “What?”

  “You sound surprised to hear me say that,” Jonah said, and huh, looked like surprise was contagious. He’d certainly thought Natalie was attractive when he’d met her during their residencies, to the point that if he and Vanessa hadn’t been together at the time, he almost certainly would’ve asked her out. But then their friendship had formed, fast and tight, and after everything imploded the night before his wedding, Jonah knew he’d never ask Natalie out, no matter how pretty he still thought she was.

  He’d never trash their friendship over a one-and-done, just like he’d never sleep with the same woman more than a couple of times before he started looking for the door.

  Natalie deserved better than him.

  “It’s just that pretty isn’t usually the first word people use when they describe me,” she said, the sound of her voice delivering him back to her bedroom. “Cute, smart, bubbly—”

  “Modest,” he interrupted (too good to pass up), and she rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, I’m not the one looking like a freaking cover model over here.”

  Jonah selected his most charming smile and slid into it like the disguise it was. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” he teased.

  “Exactly my point.” Natalie took a sweater off the hanger in front of her and began to fold it with precise movements. “You’re you. You’ve dated dozens of women who look like they’ve been Photoshopped. I’m just surprised that you, of all people, would put me in the pretty category. That’s all.”

  Whether it was that last drink still lingering, or the residual adrenaline from the night’s crazy events making him impulsive, Jonah couldn’t be sure. But before he could stop himself, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t be, because it’s true.”

  “Oh. Ah, thank you.” Her cheeks flushed, proving his point in motherfucking spades, and yeah, he really shouldn’t speak until he was certain he had full command of his brain to mouth filter.

  Drawers. Suitcase. Something other than that forbidden thrill that not only didn’t take a hike, but is now headed directly for your Johnson, you great, big Neanderthal.

  Jonah cleared his throat. “So, did you want anything in particular from here, or…?”

  Natalie looked at the dresser and shook her head. “I guess a week or two’s worth of everything, since I can do laundry after that. The stuff on top is what I wear most.”

  Glad to have a task to keep his brain—and the rest of his anatomy—focused, Jonah tugged open the drawer in front of him, which happened to be full of socks. Having sexy thoughts about Natalie, even briefly, wasn’t cool. She was about to come live with him for six weeks. He had to make sure to squash any errant feelings of attraction now.

  And he knew one surefire way to do it.

  “We didn’t get to finish our conversation at The Crooked Angel,” he said, taking four pairs of meticulously folded and paired socks out of the drawer and placing them in the suitcase.

  “What, about finding true love?” she asked from the closet.

  Jonah went for round two with the socks. “Yep.” The conversation had been inspired by their co-workers, Parker and Charlie, announcing their engagement to the crowd at the bar. At the time, Jonah had wanted to change the subject. But now, it would work as a wet blanket on his over-eager libido, so he dove back in. “What was it you said? Something about cake and happiness?”

  Natalie laughed. The blush on her cheeks had disappeared, and even though Jonah knew he should be glad, was glad, a tiny part of him wanted it back. “What I said was that I believe in the kind of love where you give the other person the last bite of cheesecake without thinking twice. Where you laugh when they’re happy, and you ache when they’re sad. Where you’re not two halves making a whole, but two wholes making something bigger, that only the two of you can make. And if I remember correctly, you rolled your eyes.”

  “It’s just not what I’m looking for,” Jonah said, reaching for the second drawer and pulling out a few of the tank tops Natalie usually wore under her scrubs, then placing them next to the socks he’d accumulated. It was one hell of a euphemism, since he wasn’t so much not looking for it as he was avoiding it like a land mine, but under the circumstances, it’d serve.

  “I know,” she said, all fact. “I don’t think I’m necessarily looking for it, either. My dating apps all kind of have cobwebs on them because of work. But I do want to find it someday soon.”

  “Soon, huh?” That was a new development. Not that they talked about it frequently, but…

  “Not for the reasons most people would assume. My mother talks about my biological clock far more than I do.” Natalie had moved on to the jeans stacked tidily on a shelf in her closet. “I mean, I want to have kids, but I want to adopt. The reason I want to find someone to be happy with is that…well, I want to be happy.”

  So much to unload there. Jonah took a breath to temper the surprise that had made his pulse go momentarily haywire. “I didn’t know you wanted to adopt.”

  “You never asked,” she said. The brightness of her grin dimmed a level as she elaborated. “And to be fair, I only recently decided that it’s what I want for sure. But I don’t even know if I can have biological children, after having all that chemo and radiation when I was young. Plus, working with kids, and volunteering in the clinic, especially, has made me realize how many children there are without really good homes. In the U.S., abroad. It’s really astounding. If I can make that difference to a handful of kids who need it, I feel like I should.”

  “A handful.”

  “Two. Three. Four.” Natalie shrugged. “I’m probably not going to be able to be horribly picky.”

  A silence lapsed between them as they both continued packing for a minute. In truth, Jonah had never given being a father much consideration. His own family life had been less than stellar from the time his mother had left him and his old man behind. Jonah had been in kindergarten when he’d come home to an empty house and a hastily scrawled Dear John letter that he’d had to give to his father. Between that and the fact that the idea of a third date had him slowly easing toward the door, fatherhood just wasn’t on his agenda.

  Chalk up one more reason to steer clear of any dirty thoughts of his best friend.

  Jonah opened the top drawer of Natalie’s dresser and was greeted by an eyeful of lingerie, and so much for that fucking idea. “Oh, shit. I mean”—smooth. Real smooth. But come on, it wasn’t his fault that she had panties in every color of the rainbow, each pair prettier than the last—“maybe you should, um, take care of this part?”

  Natalie looked up. Saw which drawer he had open. And laughed. “And here I thought you were totally well-versed in women’s undergarments.”

&
nbsp; “Not yours,” he argued, the back of his neck going hot.

  Her smile lost a little steam, as if the thought mortified her, and Jesus, could he get any more ineloquent? “Of course not,” she said, all business. “Here, why don’t you finish up in the closet while I take care of that? Then I’ll grab my toiletries and we can get out of here.”

  “Deal.” Jonah switched places with her, adding a couple of sweatshirts and the pair of running shoes he knew she loved to the space left in the suitcase she’d been packing. Once it was full, he zipped the thing up, happily noting that she’d moved on to the toiletries. Her top drawer was firmly closed, and Jonah tried to convince himself that he hadn’t seen the delicate lace. The soft silk and more functional, but somehow just as sexy, cotton.

  The forbidden thrill reminded him that oh, yes, he had, and hell yes, he’d been turned on at the sight.

  The next six weeks were going to last forever.

  “Okay,” Natalie said, reappearing from her adjacent bathroom, tote bag of toiletries in hand. “I think that should do it.”

  “Great.” Jonah took a step toward the closest suitcase, but she stopped him with a hand to his sleeve.

  “Thank you for doing this, Jonah. Seriously. You don’t know how much I appreciate you letting me move in until this mess gets taken care of.”

  She looked so sweet, so honest and open and purely Natalie, that Jonah did the only thing he could do.

  He gave up his biggest, most charming smile and said, “What are friends for?”

  3

  Natalie yawned into her hand and tried her level best not to fall asleep in the attendings’ lounge. She hadn’t stayed up particularly late, and Jonah’s futon was actually far comfier than he’d let on. But he’d been pretty quiet on the way from her place to his, and the conversation, which usually flowed so easily between them, hadn’t improved much when they’d gotten to his apartment. He’d given her a polite rundown of where everything was—sheets, extra blankets, the good cereal, that sort of thing—along with a quick tutorial on how to work the high-tech remote for the big screen TV mounted to the living room wall. He’d looked almost tentative when he’d taken the spare key off the hook inside one of the kitchen cabinets for her, placing it on the counter and sliding it over with a halting “I guess you’ll need this” before punctuating the offer with a lightning-fast “well, goodnight.”