The Bind

12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Annaliese

I ’m going to throw up.

Colt’s apartment is unlike anything I could have imagined. For some reason, in the rare moments I let myself fantasize about what his place would look like, I imagined something nice, of course. A condo well-suited for a forty year old, childless, single surgeon, but not one that had every single boujee addition one could imagine.

But then again, he keeps his personal life so distant from his work life that I wouldn’t have any inclination about the type of man he is outside of the walls of the OR.

So I let myself imagine a basic condo. Neutral design, maybe something he paid his realtor to figure out so he wouldn’t have to mess with it when he moved in. Or found an interior designer who took his credit card and renovated each room without needing his opinion. I imagined a standard leather sofa, a comfortable bed, and a spare room for friends or family if needed.

I definitely hadn’t expected to walk into the foyer and watch in utter shock as he opened a panel to silence the door chimes, then pressed additional buttons to reveal a built-in shoe rack. He casually slipped off his sneakers, placing both mine and his in the drawer then pressed the button again to have the entire panel disappear into the wall.

I also hadn’t expected to follow a marble path into the living room where there wasn’t one, but two, giant sectionals surrounding what I think is an ottoman that could easily be used as a double bed if needed.

I grew up with well-off parents in a wealthy neighborhood, and our home didn’t feel like this.

His condo is incredible, and there’s a strong chance I might throw up in it.

He leads me through the foyer and into the kitchen, ushering me to sit on a bar stool. Stunned silent and starting to feel the effects of the glucagon, a double dose, apparently, raging through my system, I numbly do as he asks. I watch him in awe as he moves around the expansive space, past the double set of sinks and opens up what I think is a door to a closet or pantry, but turns out to be a walk-in refrigerator. He disappears inside for a moment, and calls out something over his shoulder to me.

“Sorry.” I cough and subtly wipe the drool from my chin. “What was that?”

He pulls out three different prepped containers as he reads the labels off of each and sets them in front of me. “It looks like she made steak with a blue cheese compound butter, roast chicken with roasted brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes, and my favorite, her leek ravioli.”

Her?

Colt has never so much as mentioned a wife, let alone any woman in his life that was special to him, so hearing him appreciatively refer to someone as ‘her’ has me suddenly looking around the space, expecting a goddess in a silk robe to appear and welcome her man home from work. “Who?” I ask with hesitation, hoping I don’t sound like a teenager with a foolish crush.

“Gladys. My chef.”

Ah, of course he tops off his ridiculous house with a chef.

“I’m not feeling well right now; I know I need to eat eventually, but not right now. Thank you though.” I swallow thickly, looking around the expansive space and notice a bar cart along one of the living room walls. A row of bronze, likely pricey bourbons stares back at me, and a wine fridge that’s bigger than my kitchen fridge at home hums quietly in the corner. “That’s an impressive wine fridge.”

His gaze follows mine to the corner. “Are you a big wine drinker?”

I shrug. “I have a glass here and there, but nothing more than that. Usually I’m the awkward girl drinking water at the bar.”

He nods once with his gaze still on his wine fridge.

“Your place is…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence when my mind has turned to mush. “Fancy.”

He chuckles a little, and when I turn back to catch his gaze, his smile starts to fall from his face. “Are you going to be okay?”

His sentiment warms me, and I nod. “I will be, really. I’ve only had it get this bad once or twice before, but I felt normal within a few days.”

He nods while fiddling with the corner of one of the glass food prep dishes in front of him. His handsome face is pinched together, and I know he’s holding back a slew of questions.

“You can ask, you know.”

I turn in my stool to face him as I tuck my hands in my lap for warmth. The clammy sweat from earlier has dried, leaving my skin tight and itchy. But with my blood sugar climbing from the glucagon, I feel my body on the verge of another sweaty breakout.

He exhales sharply. “I don’t even know where to start, Annaliese.”

“Just pick an easy one.”

His lips purse together slightly as he thinks. “First, I guess, why didn’t you tell me you’re a diabetic? Or why the hell didn’t your dad say anything?”

I shrug. “Most of my life my dad has acted like I’m dramatic when I have an episode similar to today. It’s always been a sensitive subject between the two of us.” Sorry I was born with a shitty pancreas, Dad.

Colt immediately winces at that as he sets the container with ravioli on the counter and turns to put the other two back into the refrigerator.

He goes over to a tall cabinet, pulling out a crystal glass before opening an opposite drawer, which looks like it holds ice. Just ice. Various shapes and sizes, because who doesn’t need more than one type of ice? With silver tongs he picks up two golf ball-sized, crystal clear orbs and places them in a glass before filling it to the brim with water. He sets it in front of me, and I nod an appreciative thanks. “As for me, I don’t like to tell people unless it’s an emergency.”

He huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Wasn’t today an emergency?”

I shrug. “Yeah, but I thought I had it handled. I don’t want to sound like the world's biggest asshole as I say this, but up until recently, you haven’t exactly welcomed me here, Colt.”

I understand his frustration, and some of the fear he felt today. But he’d be foolish if he thought our relationship was the kindred type. I’ve tried to get to know him and maybe have him warm up to me as something other than a resident forced upon him by my dad. We’re good at teasing one another, and while there have been some lingering looks and touches that leave me questioning what’s going on, truthfully all I’ve ever felt in return is that he saw me as an annoying task to be dealt with.

“I still wish you would have told me.”

“Okay,” I counter. “So if that first week we met, I told you that sometimes I need an extra break to have a snack, or to drink water and take a walk. Or that sometimes my insulin pump runs out and I need to run to the locker room, what would you have done? Would you have happily delayed a case so I could switch out my malfunctioning sensor?” I keep my eyes locked on his, waiting to see if he dares to lie to me. We both know he would have been cruel and run back to my dad to glorify the first sign of trouble.

He nods, leaning forward to stretch his arms out along the counter in front of him. He moves forward so far his forehead rests on the marble slab, and I can see the strain in the thick muscles along his back. “So today,” he says with his voice muffled by the countertop. “You were running low enough that you were about to pass out, needed time to take care of yourself, but didn’t feel like you could come to me and tell me that?”

I nod, and after realizing he can’t see it, I clear my throat. “I gave myself an extra dose of insulin earlier, thinking I’d have that forty minute break between cases to grab lunch. It was philly cheesesteak day in the cafeteria, and you’d be surprised how good they are.” I planned to grab one and scarf it down within five minutes, and I knew I’d need that extra dose to prevent my blood sugar from spiking during the long transplant case.

“Except I pulled you away from that to run piddly errands.”

“Yes,” I respond, my voice barely above a whisper. Each time I thought I’d have a moment to sit today, Colt would find something else for me to do. Consult on a case with him, triage in the ER with another resident, edit my dictated notes from earlier.

He stands with a groan, his face flushed from the crunched over position. The bags under his eyes are more prominent now, and I can see the true self-hatred he holds against himself. “Fuck.” He scrubs his hands over his face, dropping them so they slap against the counter before raising them to cross over his strong chest. “I felt like I had to run you ragged, like you had to earn that case today. That’s so fucked.”

“I really wanted that transplant case. I would have done anything you asked. I keep a few small snacks stashed on me, and that’s what I was doing when I passed out in the lounge.” I managed to eat one of my fruit leathers, but my sugar was so low and the bolus was too much that it didn’t prevent the inevitable.

“I’m sorry, Annaliese. I’m so sorry.”

I push back from the stool and march over to him on wobbly legs.

He stands tall with his arms crossed over his burly chest, looking past the chair I was seated in and through the far windows. The moon is overhead, and we’re up high enough that the stars are visible above the city lights.

When I approach him, I reach a hand up and curl my palm over his forearm, ushering for him to look at me. “Hey.”

His nostrils flare, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was about to break down. “Look at me, Colt.”

He doesn’t adjust his body so I tighten my grip on his forearm and wiggle a little to get his attention. He turns his head to look down at me, his eyes dark with regret.

“I made the choice not to tell you I’m a diabetic. I also made the choice to bolus in preparation of a high-carb meal, which is always risky to do without a backup. I begged you for the case with Dr. Anderson and for everything else you’ve thrown at me because I wanted to do it. So don’t beat yourself up by thinking that you nearly killed me today.”

“But didn’t I?” His eyes dart back and forth over my face. “Didn’t I push you so hard that you didn’t take care of yourself? That you literally didn’t have a spare minute to eat? Eat ? I’m not blind, Annaliese. I know that I’ve wrecked your schedule, your health. I now know you’ve basically been sleeping at the hospital. Living in the fucking lounge because of how hard I work you.”

He brings up a good point. While I understand an attending keeping residents busy and encouraging them to shadow rare cases or take the down time to complete research, he seems to take extra pride in pushing me. Martin is my closest friend in the program. He’s a second-year, same as I am, but doesn’t have nearly the same grueling schedule. “Why are you pushing me like this? Is this what you do to all the new residents?”

His arms uncurl from his chest, and mine drops. I’m about to tuck my hands into my pockets when he snags my wrist. His touch is more delicate than the few other times he has touched me. He’s nudged me with his shoulder when teasing and brushed me aside in frustration. In the lounge it was the gentle touch of a doctor caring for a sick patient. But this touch says something else, and it’s new for us.

“I’ve been pushing you harder for reasons I won’t get into right now. But that’s going to stop.”

“Don’t you dare go eas—”

“Shush,” he says, interrupting me. He must like the annoyed pout on my face because the corner of his lip ticks up. “I won’t go easy on you, Princess. But I’ll treat you like an equal, and no matter what you say, I’m also going to treat you like someone with a serious autoimmune condition who may need a break now and then. I’m not going to give you an hour to dick around over lunch, and I won’t give you a lighter schedule. But if we’re about to walk into a case and your sugar is low, I will not…” He pauses and squeezes my wrist to emphasize the words. “I will not let you scrub in until we are both comfortable with where your glucose is at. Not only is it a huge risk for you, it is a risk to the patient, and to our jobs. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I nod, feeling foolish that I hadn’t thought of the possible repercussions of me becoming symptomatic while in the middle of a surgery. Blurred vision, shaking hands, anything could happen. The simplest slip of a hand can cause a major bleed, and I’d never forgive myself if my actions hurt someone else. “I get it.”

There’s another part of me that’s singing right now. One that has always wanted to know what it felt like to have someone care about this with me. I wouldn’t call diabetes rare, but it sucks, plain and simple. And I don’t think a non-diabetic could ever realize how much it truly sucks to carry the burden alone. Knowing that he wants me to open up about it instead of hiding, and share some of the responsibility that I carry, has tears threatening to fill my eyes.

He releases his grip on my wrist, and my skin instantly misses his touch. But I suck in a breath, wanting to get this mushy, awkward conversation out of the way and go to sleep.

But before that, I’m going to need a shower.

I tilt my head toward the hallway behind me. “How about I forgive you for being a dick if I can go take a shower.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, gesturing with a hand behind me to lead the way. “Bathroom is that way.”

I spin on my heel, grab my duffel from where it sits next to my stool, and slowly meander down the hallway, peeking in each door I pass to look for a spare bathroom. In the first doorway, I find a large office with one wall encompassing a giant bookcase filled with what looks like anything from classic novels to books on property tax. I grip the doorway with one hand, leaning in to squint at some of the titles when I hear Colt’s rumbly voice behind me.

“Are you always this nosy when you go to someone’s house?”

I spin to face him, nearly shocked by the teasing expression on his face. “Just wondering why a general surgeon needs refreshers on tax law, that’s all.”

He raises an arm again for me to venture down the hall. I pass him and reach my arm out to twist the knob of another door when he calls out, “That’s just my gym, the guest bath is the next door on your right.”

“A gym?” I cock a brow at him. While he definitely has a body honed by time in the gym, plus a God-given thick waist that stretches his scrubs in the most beautiful way, I’m sure this condo comes with a gym. Or he could purchase a membership to one of the swanky gyms in the city, complete with a juice bar and pickleball court.

He shrugs, nearly looking embarrassed. “I don’t like working out with other people.”

Ah. That fits.

I nearly pass the next door when I’m stopped in my tracks. When he said “guest bathroom,” he must have meant a bathroom fit for a Persian queen.

Gorgeous, sandstone tile lines the floor, forcing my eyes to follow its path up the wall to the barrier-free shower. Dual shower heads fall from the ceiling, and I’m imagining spending an afternoon standing under the rainfall when my eyes fall on the luxury jet tub that takes up most of the corner.

It’s large enough to fit a rugby team and has cushioned head inserts at each end. I sit on the edge, running a hand over the sleek chrome spout, knowing exactly where I want to spend the next hour of my time.

I turn to look over my shoulder at Colt and raise a brow in his direction. “Can I take a bath, maybe?”

He chuckles as he steps forward to open a small hidden panel on the wall near the tub. He taps a few buttons and it chimes. Yellow lights glow from the base as the whirlpool turns on, and I let the tepid water run over my palm as it streams down from the waterfall spout.

“It should fill within four minutes,” he says while moving over to the far wall of cabinets. He pulls out a basket and rifles through it, examining each bottle as he sets it on the counter next to him. “I, uh … I think these are bubbles for it, if you like bubbles?” He sets the basket down and fumbles with something else in the cabinet, pulling out a series of glass containers filled with different colored salts. “Or do you want these beads?” He looks at the containers in his hand and turns back to me, holding one out. “I’m not sure what they do.”

I bring a hand up to stifle the laugh that threatens to escape at how innocent he looks right now. “Those are bath salts, Colt.” I take the tray of salts from his hand, noting the engraved names along each lid. Eucalyptus, Lavender, Cherry Blossom . I do the same with the bubbles, deciding on the pair of sandalwood bath oils and the eucalyptus salts.

“I can’t believe you have this luxury bath set up; I’d never take you for the type of guy that enjoys a nice bubble bath after a hard day.”

He chuckles, his laugh real this time, and it rumbles throughout the room and over my skin, making me smile.

“I’m definitely not a bath guy. I probably haven’t taken a bath since I was a little kid and it was forced on me.”

I gawk at him, looking from him to the bath, and pointing at the tub when he appears confused. “You have a tub, like this , and you haven’t ever used it?”

“You actually might be the first person ever to use it.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to gesture down the hall. “My bathroom has a nice shower. Plus, most of the time I take cold showers or do a cold plunge.”

I shudder at the thought of that. “You like to do cold plunges?”

“God, no. I hate it. I’ve been taking an ice shower every morning for the last twelve years, and I still hate every second of it.”

“Colt,” I say through a laugh as I unzip my fleece coat now that the steam from the water has begun to fill the bathroom. “If you hate it so much, why do you force yourself through it? Life is too short to punish yourself with cold showers.” I peel off my scrub top, fixing the hem of the tank top I wear underneath as I do.

When I turn back to Colt, he’s staring, and I suddenly feel insecure like I’m standing stark naked in front of him. “It’s a tank top,” I say, obviously, gesturing to the cotton very modestly covering my torso.

He clears his throat and nods. “No shit, Princess. I just didn’t expect you to strip right in front of me.”

His words are teasing but they’re laced with something else. Something that has his tone dropping. Something that has him staring at me and me staring right back, even though I feel like absolute shit and just want to watch TV while lying in the tub. Which, if the flat screen in the corner means anything, I can do just that.

But his eyes don’t leave my body. They follow the length of my slender arms before rising to my chest. I feel him burn a path across my collar bones, and a flutter low in my belly dares me to rip off my tank top, and maybe my bra.

I shake the thought away and turn to notice the tub has filled, the water stopping automatically.

“Well, I’ll just let you … get to it,” Colt says awkwardly as he moves past me. He points to a cabinet between the dual sinks. “There are heated towels in here for when you’re done.”

His head tilts when I cock a brow at the term “heated towel” and shakes the embarrassment away as he goes to leave. With his hand on the knob, he turns back to look at me. “Can you leave the door unlocked? Just in case you need anything. I won’t open it unless it’s an emergency. I swear. I just…”

“I’ll leave it unlocked.”

He nods, turning to leave again when I stop him. “And Colt?”

I take a few steps closer then pause as I run my toes over the intricate design in the heated floor tiles. “I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for finding me, and helping, and taking me here.” I gesture around me. “This helps a lot, thank you.”

When Colt first suggested—no, demanded—I come home with him, I was mortified. The last thing I would have wanted him to see was me sick and at my weakest. It’s hard to ask for help. I don’t like the vulnerability that comes with not being able to take care of myself, or having to ask someone to get you something to drink because your body aches and every movement makes you want to cry.

But it’s not feeling that way with Colt. Not anymore.

“We’ll get you back to normal, Sparky.”

We.

I know he means that in a friendly way, or as coworkers, or as the daughter of his close friend who he sort of, inadvertently nearly killed today. But I like hearing those words come from his mouth. I like it a lot.