Chapter 2 #2
The aircraft whirls and hums as we pick up speed and lift into the air.
After a few minutes, the seatbelt sign dings, and a flight attendant comes over the speaker.
Beside me, Camila undoes her seatbelt. I was lost in my movie and hadn’t noticed her obvious physical decline.
Her face is pale. Droplets of sweat gather at her hairline.
I sit taller, ready to call the attendant, but she stands like she’s trying to get to her bag again.
She rocks back, holding onto her suitcase handle for support.
I jump to my feet and take the luggage out of her hands, lowering it for her.
“Do you need some help?”
“I…don’t…know…”
“Do you need me to get something out for you? Or get you some orange juice or something?”
Her head does a complete circle before she looks at me. “I just…need…” But before she answers, her legs give out, and her body goes limp, falling into mine. I catch her before she hits anyone or the floor. There’s a gasp or two from passengers around us.
“Call the flight attendant,” I say to the nearest guy.
I lay her in the aisle, resting her head in my lap so it’s elevated—it’s fine, we’re married. “Camila, are you alright? Is your blood sugar low?”
“My…pump…” The words come out in a slur as she tries to hold up the phone in her hand.
I tap the home screen. There’s a notification from her automated insulin device, alerting her that her recent reading was at sixty-five.
“In…su…lin…over…dose. Glu..cose…suit…case.” Her eyeballs roll back into her head as she passes out for good.
“What happened?” The flight attendant from earlier rushes to our side.
“She has diabetes. I think she’s hypoglycemic. She mentioned an insulin overdose.” I hold up her phone, showing the notification with the low reading.
The flight attendant turns on her heels, scurrying toward the back of the plane.
Over the speaker, another stewardess requests medical assistance—probably a good idea since I’m not a professional.
My childhood best friend has type 1 diabetes, so I’m familiar with all of this, but it’s definitely been a while.
And by a while, I mean I haven’t seen him in ten years.
“She said she had glucose.” I glance at the guy in the row behind us. “Check her suitcase.”
The man leaps up and unzips the front. He moves aside clothes, momentarily holding up a sexy, black negligee—skimpy enough to make both of us blush.
We briefly lock eyes over the lingerie.
My brows drop in disapproval. “Glucose!”
“Right. Sorry.” The man throws the lace nightie down and continues his search. “Okay, I think I have something.” He grabs a plastic pouch containing medications and a red case labeled Glucagon Emergency Kit.
“That’s it.” I open it up and pull out the vile and needle, prepping it.
“Are you a doctor?” the man asks as he watches.
“No, but I’ve seen these used before.”
The flight attendant appears again with a medical bag. “We need to check her blood sugar levels and give her glucose.”
I hold up the glucagon. “Already on it.” I draw in a quick breath and then stick the needle in her stomach, administering the medicine.
We spend the next few minutes watching her closely. The flight attendant places a pulse oximeter on her finger and decides to administer oxygen based on the reading. Camila’s hand finds mine, and for a brief moment, her eyes open. She looks scared.
I meet her gaze as I squeeze her fingers and brush her hair back from her face. “You’re going to be okay. We’re taking good care of you.”
A tear forms at the edge of her eye and holds there until she closes her lids, forcing the tear to slowly roll down her cheek.
Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in oxygen.
I stay there, holding her hand, brushing her hair back, and consoling her any way I can.
Eventually, the color starts to return to her face.
When the reading shows her oxygen saturation is back to normal, the flight attendant removes the mask.
For a second, she opens her eyes again, studies me, brown eyes squinting, and I wonder if she’ll finally recognize who I am.
“What happened?”
“You were hypoglycemic and passed out. I gave you glucagon.”
Her hand squeezes mine again, vulnerability showing.
“You’re fine. We’re just waiting for your strength to return.”
She sucks in a ragged breath and nods. “This never happens,” she mumbles.
“It’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”
“No,” she says with a heavy sigh, “this never happens. Never…never…never.” Her eyelids blink open and shut as she speaks.
“You don’t have to worry about that right now.” My hand lightly touches her shoulder. “Just focus on getting your strength back.”
There’s a furrow on her dark brows, but it takes at least another fifteen seconds until she gets her thought out. “I don’t need help. I take care of myself.”
Her words draw out my smile. “Well, it was either take care of you or let you die.”
“Yes, you should be thanking this man,” the flight attendant scolds, like she’s back to being annoyed with Camila. “He’s the reason we don’t have to make an emergency landing.”
“Are you a doctor?” Camila peeks one brown eye open.
She really has no clue who I am. I don’t know why that continues to shock me.
“No, I’m not a doctor.”
Her eyes flit across my face then close again. “Then why are you so good-looking?”
The flight attendant snickers as she stands. “I think she’s coming to.”
“You're leaving?” I watch as she picks up her medical bag. “I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet. She’s not even coherent.”
“Because she called you good-looking?” The woman playfully taps my shoulder. “Trust me, honey, she’s coherent. I’ve nicknamed you McHottie in my mind.” Then she walks off, calling over her shoulder. “I’ll come back and check on you in a minute.”
McHottie? Why do I feel scandalized by that?
My eyes drop to Camila, currently resting her head in my lap with closed eyes.
Objectively speaking—from a non-spousal point of view—she’s very beautiful.
A pillow of wild, dark curls surrounds her face, falling past her shoulders.
Prominent cheekbones. Freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Long lashes. Full lips. I’d keep noticing all the nuances that make up her beauty, but she speaks, making me feel like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“That was scary.”
I laugh. “For you and me both.”
Her lips twitch, but there’s no other response.
After a few minutes, the flight attendant comes back with a wide smile. “Can I get you anything?”
“Can you bring some water for when she’s ready to sit up?”
“You’re so thoughtful. I should’ve nicknamed you McDreamboat instead. Maybe I’ll pretend to be sick so you’ll take care of me too.” There’s a wink before she walks away.
“She’s hitting on you.” I glance down at Camila. A half smile plays across her lips.
“What?”
“The flight attendant. She’s flirting with you. You should ask her out.”
“I’m kinda busy right now.” My smile matches hers.
“You saved my life. You should at least be able to get a date out of it. Ask her out.” She moves to sit up.
My hands hold her shoulders, supporting her in case she falls back. “I don’t think we’re ready for this.”
“Why? Because you just met?” She turns her head to the side, meeting my gaze. It’s the most alert I’ve seen her.
“I meant, I don’t think we’re ready for you to sit up.”
“We’re?”
“Yeah, you and me. We’re in this together. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh.” I’m on the edge of my seat, watching her smile grow, hoping a flicker of a memory will come to the front of her mind.
“How do you feel?”
“Better.” Her head tilts. “Woozy, but better. I prefer to sit instead of lying in the aisle.”
“What? You’re not a fan of the disgusting airplane carpet?”
Her lips curve again. “I’m terrified of it.”
“In that case, let's get you to your seat.” I wrap my arm around her waist and gently lift her to her feet.
“It’s fine. I can do it myself.”
I’d believe her, but I’m carrying the majority of her weight. “I’m just here as a precaution,” I say as I lower her into her chair.
Her head rests against the chair back as her chest falls. “Thank you.”
“I’ll go get you some water, a blanket, and a pillow.”
“It’s really not necessary,” she says behind me, but I’m already halfway down the aisle.
Camila
My entire personality is built around being independent.
I’m the queen of “I can do it myself.” I wrote the playbook on how not to depend on a man.
And then today happened, and I’m holding a stranger's hand because I’m scared and don’t want to be alone.
It’s humiliating and humbling to be that vulnerable.
I don’t like feeling weak in front of others—especially a man.
And now, I have to sit next to him the rest of the flight.
It’s so embarrassing. I’m sure he’ll lecture me on how I need to take better care of myself to prevent incidents like this from happening again.
He’ll mansplain diabetes to me.
I gulp some water as I eye the conversation happening a few rows up between the flight attendant and the man who helped me.
I was right. The woman is shamelessly flirting with my rescuer.
It’s tacky, but I don’t blame her. He’s handsome in that protective way that makes you melt with femininity whenever he looks at you.
Or maybe it’s his huge belt buckle that did me in.
I’m a sucker for a manly cowboy. My heart goes wild over them, and while this guy is just wearing a fitted t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes that in no way signal he’s a cowboy, I can easily picture him in boots with his shirt off, working a farm.
Add to that his medium-length, dirty-blond hair that would look amazing in a cowboy hat, kind blue eyes, nice smile, and great build, and you’ve got a man who’s worth a daydream or two.