Chapter 8 #2
Pointedly ignoring Drew, I open my briefcase and take out a file, handing it to Mia.
“Here are the names for three of the best pediatric physical therapists in the city for when you get home from the hospital so that leg will be as good as new. I have a social worker on standby to help with whatever accommodations you might need in your house when Aidan gets home, and I called in a favor and the surgeon assigned to Aidan’s case works for the Lightning.
” I turn and wink at Aidan. “He fixed Oliver Wright’s broken arm during his rookie season and Oliver was back on the ice by the playoffs.
You’ll be back on that skateboard before you know it. ”
“That’s so awesome,” Aidan whispers.
“Caitlin, oh my god,” Mia says, glancing over the contents of the folder. “Thank you so much, but this is so unnecessary. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in our engagement letter about you sourcing physical therapists for my nine-year-old’s skateboard injury.”
I shrug, like I didn’t spend five hours of my day yesterday on the phone setting all this up, requiring me to be up half the night catching up on all the work I didn’t do during the day.
“I’m happy to do it, and it’s a few less things for you to think about.
With two other kids at home and both your jobs, you and John have enough on your plates. ”
Mia lays a hand over mine. “We really appreciate it,” she says, voice quietly serious.
“The doctor for the Lightning,” Drew says, and I can hear the grin in his voice just as I can tell without even looking at him that he’s focused on the little boy. “That’s pretty awesome.”
“Sorry, Caitlin, this is Drew,” Mia says, waving a hand towards the man whose presence is so overwhelmingly huge, the room seems to be getting smaller and hotter with every passing second.
His scent somehow drifts to me and sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
“Although he probably doesn’t need an intro in this city. ”
Steeling myself and ignoring the fact that I suddenly feel like I’ve crash-landed on the surface of the sun, I turn to Drew because it would be weird and rude not to.
And even though I try to prepare, no amount of preparation could steel me for the grin he aims in my direction.
The amusement in his gaze. “Hey, Catie.”
I have to suppress a shiver at the way my name sounds rolling off his tongue, and I really, really hate that. “Hey,” I manage. “What are you doing here?”
“You guys know each other?” Mia asks.
“He’s friends with my brother,” I say at the exact same time as Drew drawls “We sure do,” his tone suggestive enough that I engage in a brief and delicious fantasy where I strangle him with my bare hands.
“Do you know each other?” I ask Mia, trying to figure out what, exactly, is going on right now.
“He just showed up!” Aidan says, oblivious to the sparky tension filling the space between Drew and me.
“And he brought me this hat and a whole bunch of other Renegades stuff and he told me about a new skate ramp his company is installing at a park he’s building, and he made bread that was like dessert.
With chocolate in it.” Aidan’s voice is full of awe, and for the first time, I notice the remains of a loaf of sourdough bread, ribbons of chocolate running through its center.
What the hell?
“It was definitely one of my best,” Drew says with a smile, reaching over to flick the brim of Aidan’s hat. “You should give it a try, Catie.”
I open my mouth to say…I’m not really sure what, but at that exact second, a stabbing pain sears through my abdomen and my heart lurches as realization slams into me.
Oh holy fuck.
My brain has been so preoccupied with The Kiss and work and all the things that even though I’ve done this approximately once a month since the year I turned thirteen, I didn’t pay attention to the early signs and now it’s too late to do anything about it.
My backache isn’t because of the heels, and my stomach isn’t upset from too much caffeine.
The sweat forming on the back of my neck isn’t because of proximity to Drew and the way he looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive.
It’s because whatever’s going on in my body right now is causing a full-scale systemic meltdown.
The slow, oily roll of my stomach and the way my legs feel like they’re on the verge of collapse tells me I have about ten seconds to get the fuck out of the room before all hell breaks loose.
Through the haze that covers my vision, I see Drew looking at me with concern on his face and questions in his eyes, but my brain is racing too fast and I have too many pressing issues to add him to my list. Another wave of pain hits me, and I dig my nails into my palms so hard to avoid doubling over, I’m sure I break the skin.
“I’m so sorry. I need to step out for a minute,” I force out, and if I wasn’t so far gone, I would congratulate myself on sounding almost normal despite my body descending rapidly into crisis mode. “I’ll be right back.”
With what I hope is a smile, I turn, and it takes all my energy to walk the six steps to the door. The second I’m back in the hall, I double over, pressing my forearm into my stomach as I practically stumble to the single bathroom I noticed on my way in.
Slamming the door shut, I drop my bag, and in a practiced move born from years of chaotic, painful periods that started in inconvenient places, I tear my suit jacket off and yank my shirt over my head so neither of them get dirty.
Then, with sweat pouring off me and pain slicing through me like knives, I gather my hair in one hand and drop to my knees, leaning over the toilet and emptying the contents of my stomach straight into the bowl.