Chapter 23
Cami
Nothing says sexy like a hospital bracelet, a pulse oximeter, and a blood pressure cuff that hisses every fifteen minutes.
Pretty sure this is every girl’s fantasy.
At least I survived yesterday’s tilt table test.
Knox wasn’t allowed in the room. Only me, a heart rate monitor, and a windowless chamber that gave DMV vibes. By minute eight, the monitor turned into a full-blown villain.
It started off simple: me lying there while they adjusted the table angle and tracked my heart rate. And somewhere around the eight-minute mark, my chest got tight, my vision tunneled, and the whole room took a nosedive.
Apparently, I passed out mid-test. Which explains why my head pounds like it went three rounds with a drumline and why I finally have an official diagnosis.
POTS.
That’s what has been messing with me all summer, and probably for years.
Maybe I should’ve known. The world tilting after too many beach walks.
My heart suddenly sprinting while I was doing nothing but pouring coffee.
The weird flutters that made me google “heart attack symptoms” at 3 a.m. on more than one occasion while away at Oxford.
Before now, I always blamed all that on Olympic-level anxiety. But really, it was my heart throwing up flares.
Good news is I don’t have what took my mom away. Still, this diagnosis will live with me forever.
Blinking at the ceiling, I wince against the too-white lights, trying to ignore the dull ache behind my eyes and the scratch in my throat.
The hospital sheets are stiff, my arm is tethered to an IV as though I might bolt, and I’m wearing a pair of socks with little rubber heart prints on the bottom.
I shift slightly. Then freeze.
The chair beside my bed is empty.
Panic zips through me so fast, it makes the room tilt again. But then I hear a throat clear, soft and sleepy, from somewhere near the window.
Beautiful Knox.
He’s curled in a chairbed that looks like it was designed to punish anyone over six feet, blanket sliding off one shoulder, one foot planted on the floor, the other hanging off the edge, gravity clearly winning.
He stayed.
Of course he did.
And now I can’t decide whether to cry, climb on top of him, or make a run for it in these grippy socks.
My body votes for none of the above.
Just sitting upright is a full-body event as if I’m hauling myself through wet cement. Even my eyelids feel heavy.
Knox shifts, eyes flickering open, bloodshot and dazed, landing on me like I might vanish if he moves his gaze away too fast. Poor guy looks like he lost days of sleep, rumpled and concerned yet beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” he says, all gravel-wrapped.
“Hi.” I pat my hair down as if he’s never seen me with bed-hair.
A light knock breaks our quiet haze, and neither of us looks away as the nurse slips in.
“Good morning.” Her tone sounds practiced, cheerfully lilted. She scans the monitor, then checks her tablet. “How are we feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a giant heart monitor,” I croak.
“Well, you did pass out, even during that tilt test. Your body’s still playing catch-up.” She checks my blood pressure, adjusts the IV, then scribbles something on her tablet. “You’re doing great. The cardiologist will be in soon to go over your treatment plan.”
She walks out, her white shoes vanishing down the hallway before quiet falls back into place.
Knox is now fully awake, sipping bottled water, probably watching me so intensely in case I pass out again, just for funsies. He rises and pads over, eyes never leaving mine.
“We said no real life,” I say through a sigh. “And here I am, folding you into the realest part of mine.”
“Baby. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” He leans in to brush a strand of hair off my forehead before pressing a kiss just above it, way too gentle for how messy I feel inside. “How are you feeling?”
I barely get a breath in before the door swings open again, and this time, it’s the cardiologist. She wheels her stool closer, the squeak of the casters loud in the silent room.
Glancing up from her tablet, she offers me a quick smile. “Good morning, Cami. Did you get any rest?”
I nod though my body is basically holding up a giant “NO” sign.
She scrolls through her tablet. “As we discussed yesterday, POTS isn’t life-threatening, but it can be disruptive.
You’ll receive a referral for follow-up with a specialist in New York.
Someone will call you to schedule your appointment.
” She smiles again, warm and empathetic.
“In the meantime, while you’re here in Crystal Cove, you can begin the first line of treatment, which includes a few lifestyle changes. ”
I nod again, pretending to follow along as she rattles off words like hydration, beta blockers, and electrolytes. I catch the important parts:
No hot showers.
No caffeine.
No alcohol.
No strenuous exercise.
Cool. Let me just erase my entire personality.
Handing me a pamphlet about POTS, she calls salty snacks a life hack when really, it’s treason against my digestive aesthetic.
I nod again, staring at what the pamphlet tells me is my new normal, still stuck on the phrase no strenuous exercise.
Shifting in bed, the paper rustles beneath me, IV tugging at my arm. I swallow hard, my cheeks flaming their betrayal. “I’m not trying to turn this into a Grey’s Anatomy episode…but is sex considered ‘strenuous exercise’?”
Knox chokes on his water.
The cardiologist, bless her, doesn’t even flinch.
“I recommend holding off a day or two while your vitals stabilize,” she replies, her tone professionally unfazed. “But once you’re upright and symptom-free, sex isn’t prohibited. Just…pace yourself.”
Pace myself.
Noted.
She exits, and Knox is still coughing into his elbow, face flushed.
I shoot him a sideways glance. “What? I needed to know.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His grin tells me I’m not the only one who’s flustered. “So…pacing.”
“Mmhmm. Sounds like foreplay now involves electrolytes and a little extra patience,” I deadpan.
“More time to savor.” He lifts one brow, half-serious now. “You really okay?”
I pause, letting the silence pour over us before answering. “Getting there.”
And I almost mean it.
It’s dark by the time we arrive back home, and Knox draws me a warm bubble bath, lavender scent rising as the faucet hisses.
He stays close, perched on the tub’s edge, running the sponge over my legs, across my arms, over my shoulder, his touch almost reverential.
We talk about nothing. Favorite desserts. The Trouble Triplets. What groceries he’ll pick up to support my new treatment plan.
But every so often, he pauses, like maybe he’s thinking something he’s not ready to say.
By the time the water cools and my fingers prune, I feel wrung out in the best way. Relaxed, floaty, loved.
Once I’m settled in bed—towel-dried hair clinging to my neck, muscles finally loose—he leans in and presses a kiss to my lips, then disappears next door to nab Stripe and Shadow.
Only, he returns without them, shrugging like the decision was out of his hands. “Trouble Triplets refused to give them back. Said we needed one night alone to rest, without those furballs crawling up our spines.”
I blink hard, trying to keep it together, but the warmth rises anyway, crawling up my throat like it might spill out if I breathe too deep.
Those ladies are starting to feel like my extended family.
And that undoes me more than I care to admit.
“That was really thoughtful of them,” I say, trying hard not to let emotion slip through.
“I’m beginning to think they like us,” Knox says with a grin, then excuses himself to shower.
When he finally joins me in bed, heat still clinging to his skin, the scent of sandalwood wraps around me like gravity. I’ve missed having him this close. Missed the feel of him beside me.
“Hey, beautiful.”
The mattress dips as he inches closer, his mouth curving in that signature tilt that always undoes me far too easily.
“Hi, handsome,” I say, my words catching, balanced on the edge of want and wonder.
The moment settles before I reach for him, my fingers drifting to his shoulder, resting there.
“Thanks for getting me to the hospital, for staying with me, and making it all feel less terrifying.”
His expression softens, the grin fading into something sweeter.
Placing his hand over mine, he says, “Nowhere else I’d rather be.
And like I said at the hospital, you scared me.
Staying? That was the easy part.” His thumb brushes across my knuckles.
“Cami…are you really okay?” His eyes search mine, serious now.
“Because your health, well, that’s everything to me.
I’ve been reading up on POTS, and I know it’s going to take some adjusting.
But I’m here for all of it. For you. Anytime you’re not feeling right, dizzy, tired, anything, I need you to tell me. Promise me that.”
Emotion thickens my throat, but I manage a quick nod. “Promise. And I appreciate the research, Dr. Knox.” I squeeze his hand, teasing just enough to keep the air light. “But don’t think you get to boss me around for the rest of the summer.”
His smile curves, that mix of sweet and sinful that always makes heat take flight in my belly.
I hold his gaze, heart squeezing just a little, and slowly let my hand slide down his chest, casual but not entirely innocent.
“This’ll be a first for us. In this bed.
No sex.” His breath hitches slightly, and that tiny crack in his control tugs a grin out of me.
“Kind of uncharted territory, don’t you think? ”
“Oh, but we can still make out.” He nudges my nose with his, close enough to kiss but holding back. Barely. “I could kiss you all night. Makes me feel like we’re in high school.”
I chuckle. “Except I didn’t make out in high school. Nerd, remember?”