about it, her yoga pants were just about the only thing she owned that weren’t hospital-blue or wedding-white.
Right. So not going there.
Champagne dripped onto the carpet as her new seatmate brandished a trio of flutes. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as she popped the earbuds out.
“Want some?”
Ten o’clock in the morning, Laney’s brain volunteered. Wouldn’t be prudent. Sure, partaking would be fun, but the careful habits of a lifetime were awfully hard to break.
Her hostess jiggled the bottle. “It’s free.”
Nothing was free. As Laney’s credit card company had called to remind her yesterday.
“You look as if you could use a drink.” Goth Princess leaned forward, revealing that she’d skipped a bra that morning. When she reached over to offer a flute to the third woman in the cabin, she followed the boob shoot with a flash of neon-green thong, which was way more than Laney needed to know about the woman’s preferences in the underwear department.
“I’m good,” she said.
Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?
When Laney didn’t take the flute, the other woman curled up in her seat and grinned. “Two for me. Yay.”
“If we’re experiencing turbulence, you should probably buckle up.” PSA...achieved.
Goth Princess shrugged and knocked back half the flute. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Laney knew exactly what could happen. “Fractures, head trauma, a snapped spine—all are likely outcomes of a hard-impact crash landing. If we hit something besides water, add road rash and possible burns to the list.”
“Wow.” Goth Princess nodded but didn’t lose her death grip on the bottle. Instead, she propped the buckle against her stomach, ramming the clasp in with her elbow. “Good points.”
Message received. Safety and champagne were an option. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind...”
Reaching over, Laney snagged the second flute. She was probably performing a second public service because she had no doubts whatsoever that Goth Princess would drink both. And, since the other woman clearly weighed some minuscule, waifish amount—unlike Laney—she’d be drunk before the seaplane ever landed. Or crashed. Whichever came first. Laney swallowed a sip of champagne reflexively. She should have been a married woman by now, but her fiancé had kicked the week off by cheating on her. On day two, she’d negotiated with the wedding venues—and been forcibly reminded of the meaning of nonrefundable deposit. On day three, her credit card company had called to not-so-gently remind her that they appreciated prompt payments, and her upcoming vacation to Fantasy Island had overextended her credit limit. Day four? No more job.
Not working double shifts in the trauma bay should have allowed her to finally catch up on her sleep, but her head wouldn’t stop running options to address days one, two and three. She hadn’t even processed the unfairness of being the one who had to give up her job because her fiancé had been caught having sex at work with another woman—and her continued presence at the hospital would make him feel uncomfortable—because that needed to happen on a beach while clutching a Mai Tai. Plus, since even God had rested on the seventh day, she was really hoping today would go better.
“So.” The cabin’s only other occupant leaned around her seat to take them both in. Laney had no idea where the redhead had found a pink suit, but instead of screaming board of trustees or clash worthy of a circus clown, the cinched-in jacket with a ruffle promised fun and sassy. Or maybe that was the spray of freckles covering the woman’s nose. “Spill. What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
She swigged more champagne. Huh. Somehow, she’d reached the bottom of the glass, which didn’t even have the decency to be half-full. Goth Princess leaned forward and obligingly topped her off, temporarily fixing the problem.
Pink Suit blinked and eyeballed the cabin. The three of them were the only passengers. “Lose someone?”
That was one way to put it.
“He decided getting married wasn’t in his plans. Since our tickets to Fantasy Island were nonrefundable and he preceded his antimarriage announcement in front of the entire surgical unit with cheating on me, here I am. Laney Parker, MD. Unemployed, newly single and extremely broke.”
The movers had taken her pitifully few boxes from his condo straight to storage. She’d deal with permanent relocation when she got back.
“That’s harsh.” Goth Princess stuck her free hand out. “I’m Ashley Dixon. I won a free ticket. Sorry.”
Laney shook the woman’s hand, the plane promptly lurched and champagne went everywhere. Hell. Wiping her palm on the superexpensive leather seats was probably a social faux pas, but it was that or her twelve-dollar yoga pants. Ashley licked her champagne-covered fingers. “Even better than spitting and swearing to be blood sisters.”
“Gross.” Pink Suit extended her own hand, displaying a really pretty French manicure, but no rings. “Madeline Holmes. I write a wedding blog.”
Free ticket. Gainfully employed. Yep. Laney had definitely drawn the short straw.
“I need snacks.” The champagne suddenly hit her empty stomach like a Mack truck barreling into a freeway retaining wall, the results of which she’d seen firsthand last week and which were decidedly unpleasant. She unbuckled and stood up. Never mind the possibility of blunt trauma injuries in the immediate future—she needed something salty. Now. Madeline grinned. “What happened to snapped spines and bashed-in heads?”
“I’m hungry. And really bad turbulence would bounce you hard enough in your seat to fracture your spine, anyhow. Or you’d slam your head back into the headrest.”
Ashley blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the visual.”
“You try working six days a week in a trauma bay in San Francisco.” She’d stopped sugarcoating approximately three hours into her first day on the job. She walked down the narrow aisle toward what looked like a small galley. Beneath the elegant granite counter was a stainless-steel fridge. She yanked open the door, leaving behind a sticky smear of champagne, and hit the mother lode. The seaplane folks had stashed an entire tray of chocolate-covered strawberries inside the fridge. Something salty would have been better, but who could pass up chocolate fruit? Plus, maybe if she ate her weight in treats, she’d feel better about the credit card bill.
“What kind of doctor?” Madeline asked at the same moment that Ashley yelled “Share!”
“Trauma surgeon.” Gunshot wounds, stabbings, freeway car pile-ups...she had seen plenty of action.
Her cases were unlike the small regional hospital in the Midwest where her mother worked, or the slightly larger, but not much busier hospital in Stockton, California, that had an unexpected need for a good ER surgeon. Of course, her mother had also come through for her, and she appreciated the offer letter tucked in the bottom of her bag. Really. All she had to do was sign on the dotted line and she’d be gainfully employed again. In the middle of nowhere.
She
