Chapter 17 – Braelyn #2
I run to the back of the ship where they’re lowering a platform for them. An attendant waves me back. “Senorita, please stand back.”
“I’m a nurse. I can help.”
He reads the expression on my face that tells him I’m not going anywhere because he lets me stay.
They pull the boy, who isn’t much older than twelve or thirteen, up onto the ship and his mother all but dives on him, holding him tightly.
He’s obviously soaking wet, but his color is good and doesn’t appear to have swallowed or breathed in too much water.
“I’m fine,” the boy tells her, sitting up and removing the strap from his body. “He saved me. I didn’t go under for long. He found me right away.”
Roman is next, and the moment he’s on the dry dock, I launch myself at him the way that mother threw herself on her son.
“Oh my god!” I wrap my arms around him and check his face and body. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “I’m okay.”
I’m shaking, gasping for control as he pulls the life raft away from his body. The moment he’s clear, I climb on his lap and wrap my arms around him, hugging his wet body fiercely.
“You can’t ever do that to me again,” I tell him, half-sobbing against him.
He hugs me back, his face in my neck. “I’m okay, baby. I swear, I’m fine.”
My eyes pinch shut. He just called me baby, and he’s never done that before. I don’t know what it means or why he said it, but right now, I don’t care because he’s alive.
“Senor, you’re bleeding.”
“What?” I pull back and shift, noting the attendant’s face before glancing down at Roman. Sure enough, he’s bleeding from a large laceration on his hand.
“I think it’s from the rope,” he tells me. “It’s not that bad.”
I give him a who the fuck are you kidding look and take his hand onto my lap so I can examine it. Blood is oozing continuously from the wound and dripping down his wrist and all over my lap.
“You need stitches.”
He’s not amused.
“What? You do. You know you do.”
“I’ve had worse cuts in the kitchen.” He flexes his hand and winces slightly, more blood pouring out. “Shit. Fine. Can you do them?”
“With what? Fishing wire and a hook? I’m not freaking MacGyver, and it needs to be cleaned out. Especially if the rope sliced it. Those things are dirty as hell. I don’t want to think about the microbes living on that.”
The attendant hands him a clean washcloth to put over his wound to help with the bleeding.
He sighs, and I smack his shoulder. “What was that for?” he asks.
“For giving me a heart attack. Now that you’re okay, I can hit you for it.”
His lips twitch, but the mother and son come over, and I climb off his lap so they can thank him.
They’re both a mess, hugging Roman and showering him with praise and gratitude that he brushes off because that’s Roman.
Once everything is secured, the sailboat turns around and uses the engine to bring us back into port.
The sunset booze cruise is over.
When we arrive back on dry land, we’re handed towels and offered tokens of appreciation, including free robes and drinks, and a complimentary spa treatment, but told that for stitches, he needs to go to the local ER.
We do a quick change, and the resort has a driver take us thirty minutes away to a hospital.
Roman throws me a look when we enter the overcrowded ER, teeming with people.
“Ah, home sweet home,” I drawl.
He rolls his eyes at me, but we go and check in. Roman and I both speak Spanish, though his is way better than mine. They inform us it’ll be a six-hour wait, give or take.
“No,” he tells me flatly. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. I’m going to purchase the supplies that I’m positive they’ll sell me with cash, then we’ll go back, and you’ll do it.”
“Fine. Let’s do that.”
“Fantastic, I’ll be right back.”
Roman walks off, and I let him do his thing, watching as he goes up to the counter and talks with someone, only to remember he has no clue all the things I’ll need. I head in his direction, but now he’s speaking with a crying woman holding a crying baby.
I don’t catch every word. As I said, my Spanish is decent but not amazing.
Roman is fluent. But from what I’m gathering, the woman’s baby is sick and needs special imaging, and she’s from Nicaragua, not Mexico, and therefore isn’t eligible for country-funded care and doesn’t have the money to pay for getting her child treatment.
Roman listens intently before he turns back to the nurse he was speaking with prior. “Add whatever the baby needs onto my bill,” he says in Spanish.
And much like when he ran and jumped into the water, he’s not doing this for fanfare or for Instagram likes or for any notoriety at all. He’s doing this because that’s the sort of human he is. The woman tries to argue, but her attempt is half-assed. After all, her baby is sick and needs help.
“Please,” Roman says to her in Spanish. “I can do this. It’s okay. Let me help you.”
She thanks him profusely and says something about repayment.
He shakes his head. “No. No repayment. Take care of your girl.”
He must catch me out of the corner of his eye because he turns, and if Roman Fritz could blush, I swear he would be now. He didn’t want me to know he was doing this for her, and I can’t describe the rush I’m suddenly feeling. It’s the nurse in me, but it’s more than that.
It’s him. This man. This incredible fucking man.
The same one who can scare the shit out of men with a simple look.
Who can reduce line cooks to tears over an improperly cooked sauce.
Who fights strangers for money in warehouses because he can’t handle the anger inside of himself but donates every cent of his winnings to charity.
Who has an emotional barrier between himself and the world, never revealing too much.
His heart is a secret. A beautiful, magical place.
And I get to see it.
He’s been my best friend forever, but somehow, it’s like I haven’t truly seen him until now. It’s all these things, the giant and the tiny, but they all add up to something I’m finding harder and harder to ignore or deny.
It’s Roman.
At least that’s what my heart is trying to scream at me.
But what happens to us if I listen?