Flash Marriage To The Alpha Colonel

"If you're going to order the salmon, make sure they don't overcook it. The last time I was here, it was practically cat food."

Caroline Thompson stared at the man sitting across from her. Preston Finch. Financial analyst. Ivy League graduate. The eighteenth blind date her mother had forced her into in the last two years.

He wasn't looking at her. He was pointing his silver fork at the menu, using it to trace the lines of text like he was grading a paper. A drop of sauce from his appetizer flung off the fork and landed on the white tablecloth.

"The wine list here is a joke," Preston continued, snapping the menu shut. He finally looked at her, his chin tilted up. "At my club in New York, we have a sommelier who actually knows the difference between a Bordeaux and a Burgundy. Here? I wouldn't trust them to open a beer."

Caroline's fingers itched under the table. She gripped the fabric of her dress. This was her life now. Sitting across from arrogant men who thought a fat paycheck gave them the right to treat everyone else like peasants.

"So, Caroline," Preston said, leaning back in his chair. He gave her a look that was probably supposed to be charming but just looked constipated. "My mother mentioned you're a nurse?"

"Intern nurse," Caroline corrected automatically. "At Washington United Medical Center."

"Right, right." Preston nodded slowly, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a look of dismissal. "Must be exhausting. All that cleaning up and taking orders. And the pay? Practically minimum wage, right?"

Caroline's jaw tightened. "It's a residency. It's supposed to be hard."

"Sure, sure. But honestly," Preston leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "why work so hard? A pretty girl like you could just find a guy who actually provides. You know, someone who makes enough so you don't have to wipe up vomit for a living."

Caroline felt a muscle tick in her temple. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his financial advice when her phone buzzed in her purse.

She never took personal calls on a date. It was rude. But right now, rudeness was the only thing keeping her from throwing her glass of water in his face.

She dug into her bag, glancing at the screen. It was the hospital. Not just any number, but the direct line to the Chief of Staff's office.

"I have to take this," she said, already pushing her chair back.

Preston frowned. "We haven't ordered yet."

"It's an emergency." She didn't wait for his permission. She practically sprinted toward the back of the restaurant, near the restrooms, where the clatter of silverware faded.

She answered the call. "Thompson."

"Caroline." The voice on the other end was Dr. Alistair Cromwell. He never called her by her first name. His tone was stripped of its usual condescension; it was flat, urgent. "You need to come back.