17. Tess
Tess
M orning light filters through the hotel curtains, casting Charlie's face in a soft glow. I trace my finger along his jawline, remembering how those same features looked above me in the darkness last night, how his eyes held mine as our bodies moved together.
He stirs under my touch, his lips curling into a sleepy smile that sends butterflies racing through my stomach. I can’t deny that I love waking up next to him.
"Morning, beautiful," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. His hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that feels incredible.
"Hi," I whisper back. My body still hums with the memory of his touch, electric and consuming.
Charlie tugs me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead, before he checks his watch. "Hotel breakfast ends in forty-five minutes. Think we can make it?"
I glance at the twisted sheets, evidence of our night together, and feel heat rise to my cheeks. "Depends on what you have in mind for those forty-five minutes."
His laugh rumbles against my ear, his hand sliding along my waist. "Tempting, but I should probably feed you. Can't have you fainting from hunger during the drive back to Seattle. And, truth be told, I’m a little sore from last night."
"You're not the only one, actually. Perhaps we shouldn’t have gone on to round two after the chips were gone." I raise an eyebrow, and he laughs again.
He kisses me again, this time on the lips, soft and sweet and full of promise. I can’t get enough of his kisses.
Twenty minutes later, we're dressed and seated at a table in the hotel restaurant. The waitress has just filled Charlie’s cup with coffee and mine with hot water for my tea.
"What's that smile about?" Charlie asks, his foot finding mine under the table.
"Just thinking about last night." I take a sip of water, wishing my tea was finished brewing. "The hot tub and..."
"The mind-blowing sex?" Charlie supplies helpfully, his blue eyes twinkling before he gives me a big wink.
I nearly choke on my coffee. "I was going to say 'company,' but sure, let's go with that." God, he’s so sure of himself and I love it.
A waitress approaches with a carafe of coffee.
"Refill?" she asks, already pouring more into Charlie's nearly empty cup. That man can take down some coffee. I’m sure he notices a big difference between this coffee and his own but I don’t know how it makes that much difference because he loads them all up with so much sugar.
"Thanks," he says, already reaching for several packets of sugar. "And I think we're ready to order."
I scan the menu, settling on my usual healthy choice. "I'll have the house granola with yogurt and berries, please. But could you check if there are cashews in the granola? I have an allergy."
The waitress nods. "I'll check with the kitchen, but I'm pretty sure it's just almonds and pecans."
Charlie orders an omelet with basically everything in it and a side of bacon, and the waitress rushes away.
"I didn't know you had a cashew allergy," Charlie says, concern etching lines between his brows.
"Since I was a kid." I shrug.
"That’s good information to know," Charlie says, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Especially when a guy might want to cook for you someday."
The casual implication of future plans warms me from the inside out. "Yes. No Kung Pao chicken or Thai cashew chicken, please."
Charlie's thumb traces patterns on my palm. "Noted. I’ll be sure to alert my chef."
“You have a chef? Seriously?”
“No, not seriously. Just messing with you. I’m the chef.”
The waitress returns with our breakfast and an assurance that the granola is cashew-free. The bowl looks delicious—golden-brown clusters mixed with creamy yogurt and bright berries. I thank her and dig in, savoring the sweet crunch.
"So," Charlie says between bites of his omelet, "do you want some of my coffee? I know how much you love it.”
I laugh, swallowing another spoonful of granola. "You know I don’t want your coffee. If I’m going to drink any coffee, I’ll have Emerald City’s. It’s the only coffee I even kind of like."
“Well, at least that’s something I guess,” he concedes, taking another large sip.
Three bites later, I feel it—that first telltale tingle on my lips, the slight tightening in my throat. My body recognizes the danger before my mind fully processes it.
No. Not now. Not here.
I put down my spoon, suddenly hyper-aware of every sensation. The tingling intensifies, spreading across my mouth. My tongue feels swollen, heavy. I reach for my water, taking a desperate gulp as panic rises in my chest.
"Charlie," I manage, my voice already changing, growing hoarse. "Something's wrong."
He looks up from his plate, his expression shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant. "What is it?"
"Cashews," I wheeze, fingers fumbling for my purse. "There must be—in the granola?—"
My throat constricts further, each breath becoming a struggle. The familiar, terrifying sensation of my airways narrowing sends a bolt of fear through me. I find my EpiPen case, hands shaking so badly I can barely open it.
"Jesus, Tess." Charlie is beside me in an instant, taking the EpiPen from my trembling fingers. "What do I do? How do I use this?"
I try to speak, but my voice is barely there. I gesture—remove the cap, hold against my thigh, push until it clicks.
Charlie follows my panicked instructions, his face pale but his hands steady as he presses the auto-injector against my leg. The needle deploys with a click, and the medicine rushes into my system. I count the seconds silently, fighting against the growing pressure in my chest.
"We need to get you to the emergency room," Charlie says, already pulling out his wallet and throwing cash on the table.
I nod, knowing he's right. This isn't my first reaction, but it's been years since the last one, and the intensity terrifies me. Charlie wraps an arm around my waist, supporting me as we move through the restaurant. My vision blurs at the edges, my lungs burning with the effort of drawing breath.
"My car's closer than waiting for an ambulance," he says, guiding me toward the exit. "Can you make it?"
I nod again, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Each step feels monumental, each breath a conscious battle.
Charlie's voice is calm but urgent as he speaks to the hotel valet, demanding his car immediately. His arm never leaves my waist, his body solid and reassuring against mine. As the world narrows around me, his voice becomes my anchor.
"You’re going to be okay, Tess," he murmurs close to my ear. "I’m going to get you there as fast as I can."
The valet screeches to a halt in front of us, Charlie's sleek black Aston Martin barely stopping before he's yanking open the passenger door. My legs feel wobbly as I slide into the seat, my breathing coming in short, painful gasps.
"Hang in there," Charlie says, slamming my door and racing around to the driver's side.
Charlie peels out of the hotel entrance, tires squealing against asphalt. My body presses back into the leather seat as he accelerates, weaving between a delivery truck and a minivan.
I grip the door handle, trying to focus on my breathing instead of the buildings blurring past my window. The epinephrine is working—I can feel it in my racing heart and trembling hands—but my throat still feels too tight, my tongue too big for my mouth.
Charlie takes a corner so sharply that I slide against my seatbelt. His eyes flick between the road and my face, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"How are you doing?" he asks, voice taut as he accelerates through a yellow light.
"Still breathing," I manage to whisper. The words scrape past my swollen throat.
He navigates around a slow-moving sedan, cutting back into our lane with inches to spare. I should be terrified by his driving, but there's a controlled precision to his movements that's oddly reassuring. His face is a mask of concentration.
We arrive at the hospital and Charlie pulls up in front of the doors to the ER. He jumps out immediately and comes to the passenger side, easing me out.
“You’re going to be okay, baby. I’m going to make sure of it.”
The emergency room doors slide open with a hiss as Charlie half-carries me through them. My lungs feel like they're wrapped in barbed wire, each breath a negotiation between determination and pain.
The fluorescent lights above us pulse as Charlie's voice cuts through the antiseptic air, demanding help in a commanding voice. I want to tell him I'm okay, but the lie won't form on my swollen tongue.
"She's having a severe allergic reaction," Charlie announces to the triage nurse, his arm tight around my waist. "Cashews. She used her EpiPen about ten minutes ago, but she's still struggling to breathe."
The nurse glances up from her computer, her gaze sliding over me with clinical detachment. She hands Charlie a clipboard with a forms attached. "Take a seat and fill out these forms."
Charlie's body tenses against mine. "Did you not hear me? She can't breathe. This is anaphylaxis."
"Sir, everyone here is experiencing an emergency." The nurse gestures to the half-full waiting room. "We'll get to her as soon as possible."
My vision darkens at the edges. The pressure in my chest intensifies, like someone's stacking bricks on my sternum. I clutch at Charlie's arm, fingers digging into his sleeve as panic rises.
Charlie's voice drops to a dangerous octave. "Her throat is closing. If you don't get a doctor right now, I'll call every news outlet in Washington to report how Spokane General let a woman die in their waiting room because filling out paperwork was more important than saving her life."
The threat—delivered with the calm certainty of a man who controls a business empire—lands with precision. The nurse's eyes widen slightly before she picks up a phone.