Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I grasp his arm, letting him feel my grip through his shirt before I let go. I hope my touch communicates everything. I don’t find him gross, and it’s not embarrassing. People get sick. It gets messy. That’s life. He’s clearly not used to having anyone here to look out for him. It makes my chest get tight, which is a good cue for me to get all the shit together so we can go.
I don’t even think for a minute about how we’re getting there until we get into the garage, and I’m faced with slipping into the driver’s seat of a luxury car. It’s not the flashy sports car or the old collector muscles that are on the other side of the garage. It’s just a regular sedan, but I use the word regular in relation to things that cost millions of dollars.
This car is expensive too. That’s what I’m worried about.
I get behind the wheel, practically shaking.
I glance at Warrick, but his face is this terrible cross between super sick and horribly surly at being in this position at all. He has the bathroom trashcan with a bag in it on his lap, because things like used ice cream pails don’t exist in the houses of billionaires.
“Okay…” I blow out a breath and start the car, wishing I was driving my beater.
My mind does the old hop-skip straight to the fact that Warrick has never mentioned me putting a car cover over it. He’s never seemed embarrassed to have it parked on his driveway.
“If I crash this thing, it’s insured, right?”
He turns his face to me, and he has to practically pry his eyes open. “I’m fine. I’ll drive.”
“No! You just sit there and focus on…um…well, I don’t know. Focus on feeling better. I’ll get us there.”
I go to put the address into my phone, but he beats me to it with the fancy screen. The whole car is leather on leather, and it smells like it’s straight out of the factory. I adjust the mirrors, even though it takes me so freaking long because the switches are so complicated, and then carefully back out.
I creep down the road at a crawl until I figure that’s unsafe, too, so I make sure I go at the speed of traffic. Thankfully, the clinic isn’t that far from Warrick’s house. We make it without incident, and he makes it without needing the trashcan.
I don’t know what to do with myself now. Should I peace out and leave him here? It would be weird to go in there with him, wouldn’t it? I’m his housekeeper.
But knowing Warrick, he’ll downplay the severity of this. He could be bleeding internally and say he’s fine, and they might just let him walk out.
This might not be in my job description, but I take a deep breath, lock the car twice to ensure it’s really going to be okay, and head in.
This place is fancy. There’s a tiny waiting room, and it’s clear people don’t come here to sit in it. The front desk is all glass and metal, and the whole place is white, but not the cold, clinical, horribleness that hospitals usually are.
Warrick is already getting led to a room by a man in a white coat who has suit pants sticking out underneath. No scrubs here.
I stop, feeling awkward, but Warrick must sense it. He glances behind him, and something in his eyes changes. A wrinkle on his forehead disappears. I watch the way his shoulders dip as he lets out a breath he must have been holding. It’s like he’s relieved I followed him in.
I get it. Doctors freak me out too.
This place is nice, but it’s still one of those places where people get poked and prodded, and seriously? He just threw up blood. If that were me, I’d be in full meltdown mode, fearing the worst. I’d think I was dying. He might be calm on the outside, but he’s not feeling well, and now I’ve probably worked him into a sense of unease. It doesn’t matter if he’s good at hiding it. It doesn’t make it less valid.
That glance over his shoulder seals it for me. I’m going in there, or at least staying and waiting.
The doctor turns and follows Warrick’s stare. He smiles at me. He’s a middle-aged man who looks perfectly capable and at ease. He doesn’t have a worried, clinical, overworked, and harried sense about him at all, which makes me feel better.
“I’m going to run some tests. Would you like to have a seat in the waiting room? Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea?”
I’m sure when he says I, he means the pretty, young secretary at the front. I shake my head. “I’m alright. I’d be happy to wait. Thank you.”
They disappear together, and I take a seat in the small area. The chairs look hard and modern, but they’re actually quite comfortable.