Six Month Wife (One-Night Billionaires #1)

1. Adair

Adair

I’m thirty days from financial ruin, and my best friend just traded our waterfront cocktails for a front-row seat in the ER. I really needed that overpriced Moscow Mule and maybe a reckless flirtation with a hot stranger to take the edge off.

Instead, I’m holding Jenna upright while she curses gravity and ruins my last clean sundress.

“This is what happens when you speed-walk in heels like you’re late to a Vogue shoot.”

Jenna groans and clutches my arm harder as I haul her through the automatic doors of the ER. She’s so dramatic. But so am I, so we’re made for each other.

Her ankle is swollen and turning colors that no limb should. That is a fact.

I know I heard something pop when she hit the sidewalk. Now, whether that was her ankle or a seismic shift at the exact moment of impact, no one can say for sure.

“This is so embarrassing,” she hisses. “I barely tripped. You’re completely overreacting. ”

“I’m overreacting? You rolled around and groaned like a feral raccoon caught in a karaoke bar.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“Seriously, though. You went down hard, your foot went sideways, and your body literally bounced off the concrete. Do you see how swollen your ankle is? Better to be safe than sorry, especially since you’re flying out in the morning.”

A nurse behind the front desk glances up. I throw her a tight smile that screams, “Please help my friend before I lose it.”

She's nonplussed, so I accept the clipboard she hands over and look for a place to sit.

Jenna tries to balance and stumbles, even on her good leg, and crashes against me. I wrap an arm around her waist and guide her down gently to the chair, muttering, “I got you.”

Once I get her into a seat, I grab the clipboard back, already scribbling. I go directly into mom-mode.

“Address?”

The form is endless—insurance, address, emergency contacts. My anxiety continues to rise as I scribble in her info. Jenna’s ankle is ballooning before my eyes, and the longer this takes, the worse it looks.

I shoot a glance toward the desk, wondering why no one is moving. Can't they see we have a woman in distress over here?

“Come on,” I mutter. “Do we need to bring in a marching band to get seen around here?”

My phone buzzes in my bag. It's probably Bets, wondering why I haven’t sent the updated numbers for Citrine.

I ignore it. She wanted me to sit down with her this afternoon, but I already told her I had company in town. I thought we would be spending our last day sipping cocktails on the water, not hanging out in the ER waiting room. But when duty calls, cocktails take a back seat.

A triage nurse calls us back, and Jenna winces as she hobbles toward the curtained exam room.

After the nurse takes her vitals and leaves us to wait for God knows who to come see us next, Jenna looks over at me. She gives me a weak smile. “You missed your investor meeting for this. I'm an ass. Forgive me?”

“You're the opposite of an ass. If I had to choose between you and Bets judging my profit margins, I’m picking your busted ankle every time. Things aren’t going so well right now, and I don’t want to face reality, anyway.”

As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back. I've been shielding her from my business woes her entire trip here. I don't want to admit it to anyone, especially Jenna. I want everyone to believe things are hunky dorey.

She frowns. “Citrine’s not doing well? I know you've been going in a lot during my visit, but figured that was because business was good.”

I let out a quiet laugh as I smooth the crinkled paper on the exam table and help her swing her leg up, careful not to jostle it.

“I wish. I'm down to only one employee, so I've had to fill in. I'll be fine, though, and Citrine will be fine. We're just going through a situation.”

Jenna props her head on the lump masquerading as a pillow on the paper-covered table. Concern softens her voice. “Why are you just now telling me this?”

“I didn’t want to bring down your trip. It’ll work, I just need to figure some things out. Palm Beach is brutal. Rents keep spiking, tourists don’t come back, and people are just plain fickle. ”

Jenna reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry, Addy. I hate you’re dealing with this.”

“It’s fine. I’m figuring it out,” I lie. “I dropped the spa services, for the most part, because they were costing me too much keeping a full staff there.”

“What do you mean by 'for the most part,’ because you’re either doing spa services or you’re not, right?”

“I will still schedule massages for regulars, but I don’t advertise and I don’t keep a staff for them. It’s kind of like my side hustle now at my own business.” I laugh, as if that’s funny.

“You’re a brilliant businesswoman and an even better friend. Things will work out. I think you need to find your stride.”

“Well, I need to either find it or a money tree, and fast. I’m barely keeping the lights on. Something’s got to give. I’m working on a skeleton of a wellness business now, and there isn’t much more I can shave.”

This isn't hyperbole. Unless I find a silent partner, someone who doesn't mind footing the bill without taking over the vision, then I have a year left, max.

Jenna winces as she shifts. Her ankle’s even more swollen than when we got here, behaving more like my hyper-color t-shirt from 1998 than human skin.

“I knew I should have carried you in here,” I mutter, eyeing the purpling mess. "I bet I made it worse by letting you hobble."

“Lord, I can’t take you.”

“I can’t help it that I’m thorough. I don't want this to be the only thing you remember about your trip East to see me.”

She rolls her eyes, and that’s when I see him. Right at that exact moment, my snark short-circuits, and all is right with the world .

He saunters by like a dream. All six feet of lean muscle, tousled dark hair, and scrubs that should be illegal without a warning label. My jaw nearly hits her swollen ankle.

He moves like he owns the hallway. He's calm, confident, and annoyingly unfazed. Exactly the kind of man who either saves lives or ruins them.

Maybe both.

Jenna follows my gaze. “Ten bucks says he’s married. Or a total asshole.”

“He’s wearing a stethoscope,” I whisper. “Whatever he is, I want him to take care of you .”

And me, but I keep that to myself.

She grins. “Think he does ankles? Doctors that hot definitely don't take care of ankles.”

“Watch and learn.”

I step out of the room into the hall. I raise my hand like a woman ordering dessert. That’s a good analogy, because I could use a bite of that after a yummy meal.

“Excuse me!” I call out. “Doctor? Excuse me, can you please help us?”

He looks up. We lock eyes, and I’m slapped with a sense of déjà vu. I shake it off and put on my best damsel in distress smile. He strides over with a scowl like I’ve interrupted his very important business.

“Yes?” His voice is smooth, with enough impatience to make me bristle.

I look down at his embroidered white coat. P. Matthews, MD.

“My friend’s ankle might be broken,” I say, like it’s life-threatening.

She raises her eyebrows at me when I look back at her.

I turn back to him. “And we’d love it if you could take a look and let us know what we're dealing with. She isn’t from here and has to fly back to California tomorrow morning and?—”

I bat my eyes like a bad romance flick for good measure.

He glances down at his tablet, eyebrows raised, then back at me. “You know this is an ER, right? We probably have a few more serious things to deal with than a sprained ankle. Someone will be with you as soon as possible."

He looks over at the bed, where Jenna waves sheepishly.

“Well, I said broken, not sprained,” I reply. “If you could take a look, we can get out of your hair, Dr. Matthews.” I glance down at his chest to make sure I’ve got his name right.

His face softens, and he looks back at Jenna’s ankle—the one swelling to the size of a purple golf ball.

“What exactly happened?"

“She fell on uneven pavement near the marina,” I answer for her.

"I don’t think it’s serious. I’m pretty sure she’ll make her flight.”

His tone is way too casual. Like she twisted an earring, not a critical joint.

“She can’t put weight on it, and she’s in a lot of pain,” I interject, before he can brush us off entirely.

He sighs, barely glancing at her foot. “It’s likely a sprain. Happens all the time. Some rest, maybe ice, and she’ll be fine.”

He turns to walk out, like he has better things to do. Which he probably does. But, I don't care how hot he is, now he's pissing me off.

Nobody dismisses me, no matter how engaging their eyes are.

I glance at Jenna, who’s biting her lip, clearly in more pain than she wants to admit. My irritation spikes. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s blowing her like she doesn’t matter.

“With all due respect, Doctor,” I say in the tone I reserve for people I don’t respect.

He turns to face me.

“You haven’t even looked at her ankle. How can you say it’s not broken?”

His gaze flicks to mine. There’s a glint there. It's amusement, maybe even curiosity, like I’m a more interesting kind of problem for him to solve than the man crashing out in the next room.

“And what medical degree do you have, Miss…?”

“Carpenter,” I say, chin lifting. “Adair Carpenter.”

Something shifts. A shadow crosses his face for a brief second. That smug expression falters, and his eyes sharpen like he’s suddenly paying attention.

“Adair?” he repeats, slower this time.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, holding back the smartass comment I want to say back. But there's something in the way he says my name that stops me. Maybe he’s been into Citrine. Something about him is so familiar.

I study him. That face, those eyes. God, he’s hot. Too hot. But there’s something else, something I can’t place.

“Do I know you?” I ask before I can stop myself, my eyes squinting as I search my archives.

Jenna shifts beside me and whines loudly, reminding us that she’s the patient here.