Chapter 1
Chapter One
brIDGET
Did you mafia anyone today?
Declan
That’s not how that works
Okay, fine, did you dungeon master someone today?
Declan
Also not how it works
Want to show me how that works…? The Dom thing, not the mafia thing
Declan
Are you trying to get me killed?
Who, me?
Declan
Trouble. Behave.
I type out the next response.
Make me
But I never send it, and I tell myself it’s because Mercury’s in retrograde, and I know better than to tempt fate.
Declan
Hey, missed you at the wedding, saw you were in Tahiti?
Haha I wish. Tahiti backgrounds are just a thousand times better than the inside of a hospital room
Declan
Any background’s better than a hospital room
Except… a funeral home maybe
Declan
Christ
I look up from my phone when my nurse enters. I place my phone face down and hear the buzz from his response, but don’t want to be too… eager.
“Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.” The nurse pauses in the doorway, her clipboard tucked against her hip. She's one of the youngest ones here, round-faced, with kind eyes and the earnest smile of someone who really wants to help. I take a quick look at her name badge.
Dora. Cute.
“No, thanks,” I say with a smile. I want to see what he said.
Declan
Are you hungry?
Not that hungry these days. Just sometimes.
Declan
If you could have anything right now, what would it be?
That Italian wedding soup from D’Agostino’s. The one with the little meatballs. Maybe some crusty bread.
Declan
Got it. I’m on my way.
We’ve been texting now for a few months, and I have to admit… it’s the highlight of my day. No one can make me smile the way he can.
I keep every one of his texts and would never admit how many times I reread them. I’m basically a texting pen pal with a known member of the McCarthy family mafia.
And I’m pretty damn chuffed about it.
Dora’s fluffing the sheets. I bite my lip and swallow hard. “I have a visitor coming. That's okay, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
I don't even know why I ask her because people come all the time. My sister, my dad, Mam.
Oh my god, my mother. I forgot she’s coming.
I text her quickly and feel guilty for lying, but the truth is, I’m really not up for a visit today.
I’m not feeling well. Let’s postpone the visit? I’m fine
Mam
Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?
Maybe later. I'll let you know how I feel. I need rest.
The guilt churns in my belly as I shut off the phone. It's a particular kind of lonely, lying in a hospital bed, lying to your mother so you can see someone who isn't coming to see you the way you want him to.
I know what this is. I'm not confused about what this is. I just don’t see a reason not to enjoy the hell out of a hot guy paying attention to me.
I'm not a particularly religious person, more of a signs-and-omens type, if I’m honest, but I can't shake the feeling that some kind of higher power is judging me right now.
“What kind of visitor?” Dora says as she comes over, checks my IV, takes my pulse, and writes down my vitals. She adjusts the drip and winces, just slightly, at the state of my arms. The bruising has spread again, all black and purple, across my arms like faded ink stains.
I don’t look at them if I can help it. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after years of needles and draws and all that, but it still makes me feel a bit queasy.
“He's just a friend,” I say, but the way her eyes meet mine, woman to woman, tells me she already knows better. Maybe it’s the way my voice has gone husky and I’ve shifted the sheets to cover the bruising.
“Ah. Maybe not just a friend.”
Honestly, he isn't even a friend but a very sexy, older man I happened to meet at a sex club—who I told I was dying, and who I didn't want to let me die without…
I lift my chin. “Just a friend.”
“Well, you want to look your best for your close friend, don't you?” she says with a small smile. “When’s he coming?”
“Maybe an hour or so. He’s picking up lunch.”
“Good. I like a man who knows how to feed a woman.”
“Me too.”
I look away because my eyes are suddenly all watery. I swallow hard.
Dora leans in and takes my hand, and I'm startled by the warmth of it. She's usually moving from one thing to the next, always somewhere else to be, but this time, she sits down on the edge of the bed.
“There's something I want you to understand, Bridget,” she says, “and it's something I remind all of my patients on this floor because I think everybody needs the reminder.” I stare at her name tag because I don’t want to look into her eyes.
“Yes?” I say, my heart beating fast.
“A great many things are out of your control right now, and I won't pretend otherwise.
But it is still up to you whether you say yes to a procedure, whether you trust a doctor, whether you move forward with a treatment plan or not, whether you want a visitor or not.
These decisions are yours. And it is my job not only to make sure that you're okay, but also to make sure that other people honor your decisions.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Now.” She winks. “Let's get you in the shower, give your hair a proper wash, and I think you mentioned you have some makeup?”
“I do.”
“Excellent. Let's get you ready to visit your friend, sweetie.”
Forty minutes later, my hair is washed and dried, falling in soft, glossy waves around my shoulders.
If nothing else, at least my hair looks good.
There's not much to be done about the bruising on my arms, but I’ve put on a little mascara and some lip gloss, and I'm actually starting to feel human again.
Dora helped me change into a pair of shorts and a soft tank top instead of that god-awful hospital gown, and I've just settled back against the pillows when I hear footsteps and a deep voice in the hallway.
“Bridget Kavanagh? Right this way, sir.”
The door opens. My heart beats frantically as I wipe my damp hands on my sheets, and Dora’s eyes go wide. She catches herself and smooths her expression, but I look away fast because I'm going to break into a grin, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
How can he look so fucking sexy, holding a bag of soup under the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room? Dark trousers, gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular, inked forearms, collar open just enough.
Dora makes a sound beside me that she will deny later. Somewhere in the hallway, a chart hits the floor, and two nurses are standing on the other side of the door, whispering. I stare into the middle distance and think very hard about absolutely nothing.
“You're looking pretty good for a girl stuck in a hospital bed,” he says with a wink. A wink. My heart somersaults.
Declan.
“I try. Thanks for coming. My god, that smells divine. Have a seat.”
“Would you like me to find somewhere to put all of that?” Dora asks, eyeing the massive paper bag in his arms, which looks like it has weight to it. “What is it?”
“D'Agostino's,” he says, setting it on the tray table. “Italian wedding soup and a few others.” He proceeds to unpack four quart-size containers and three loaves of bread.
“Declan.” I stare at him. “Did you bring enough for the entire floor?”
“Maybe,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I just started thinking—what if you weren't feeling that great and couldn't eat the meatballs or something, you know? Or maybe you wanted a different flavor, so it just… It seemed safer to have options.”
Dora bites her lip to hide a smile. “I'll leave you to it.” She pulls the door shut behind her.
“This is good stuff,” Declan says, already leaning over a container and inhaling. “This one's mine.” Placing it in front of him, he tears off a generous slab of bread and passes it to me without asking. Our fingers brush. I stare at the bread so I don’t meet his eyes.
I take a bite. It's delicious, all salty crust, warm and exactly right, the kind of comfort food I crave these days.
I eat slowly, savoring it. My mother would have fussed over whether I wanted the meatballs or the broth or just the greens, and I love her for it, but sometimes the fussing is its own kind of exhaustion.
It feels easy and natural to eat with him. Not what I expected at all.
“So,” Declan says, settling back in the chair like he owns it. “You want to tell me more about why you’re in here?”
I’m very good at avoiding conversations about my health with him and have managed to do so, mostly, but he deserves the truth.
“Well. You know how my bone marrow’s fucked,” I say in terms I know he’ll understand. He stares. “Sometimes I have flare-ups and need transfusions. I just—” I pause. “I'm not doing very well right now, actually.”
“How not well?” His eyes darken as he tracks the bruising on my arms, his jaw tightening.
I don't mean to tell him everything, but it’s time to stop being vague.
“Well, with Aplastic anemia, there’s not a lot of options for treatment, but we’re trying some experimental treatment.
So far, so good.” He listens without interrupting, elbows on his knees, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
“Well,” he says when I've finished. “That feckin’ sucks.”
“I know,” I say, and somehow the bluntness of it is the most comforting thing anyone has said to me all week. Everyone else tries to look at the positive side of things, remind me of what I should be grateful for, and it’s getting old. Erin’s pragmatic and supportive, but busy these days.
I've polished off the bread without noticing. Mam would be proud. She’s always harping on me to eat more.
He reaches into the bag, pops the top off a Coke, and hands it to me.
“That was your drink at the club, wasn't it?” he says, with a small smile that does crazy things to my heartbeat.
“It was. Thank you.” My heart keeps doing something inconvenient, and I'd rather it didn't because Declan McCarthy might be the most commanding man I've ever had in a room with me, and I know better than to find that comforting.
I gulp the soup. “Right. And why are you… here?”
Well, that was dumb.