Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Reagan?” I shook him a little, panicked and helpless. “Reagan.”
The nurse glanced at me, no amusement in his eyes this time. “I need you to step out, sir.”
I stood but remained by the side of the bed, clinging to Reagan’s limp hand. “I can’t leave him,” I insisted.
The nurse moved between me and Reagan, instructing Reagan to breathe as deeply as he could, and where everything had seemed to be dragging along far too slowly before, suddenly, they were happening in an urgent blur. The pulse ox alarm continued to blare, and my heart rate tried to keep pace with its frantic beeping. I begged Reagan to breathe, but two more people came into the bay and forced me out of the area so they could assist.
My fingers clenched into fists as I paced a squeaky path back and forth across the linoleum that separated me from him. I understood the need to stay out of their way and let the experts handle it, but the very idea of Reagan unable to get enough oxygen had cold fear squeezing my own lungs like a vise.
McGee appeared beside me suddenly in the restricted area and pulled me into a hug. “Boss, you’re not gonna do him any good if you pass out. Come on, now. Slow and steady. That’s it.”
I sucked in a huge breath. “Fuck. I hate this.”
“I know. I get it. But I called January on the way back, and she verified that this is the best hospital in the area to treat him. Top-notch emergency room and a… what do you call it? A specialized team of breathing doctors, too.”
A young woman came out from Reagan’s treatment area, and I stepped into her path.
“Please. Just tell me. Is he okay?” I asked.
Her face softened in sympathy. “His oxygen is low. We’re concerned that he’s developed pneumonia as a result of the flu, and we’ll be bringing in X-ray equipment to confirm. If it’s pneumonia—or, frankly, even if it isn’t—once he’s stabilized, we’ll be sending him upstairs so we can monitor his breathing and get him started on some IV meds. Why don’t you go to the cafeteria and get some dinner? He’ll be resting and won’t even notice—”
I snorted. “Oh, he’d notice. And so would I. I’m not leaving.”
She studied me as if to see how serious I was. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared her down the way I stared down rival CEOs during intense boardroom negotiations.
She sighed. “Fine, but you need to move back and sit over there.” She pointed to a makeshift waiting area—three hard, gray chairs set along a wall between a laundry bin and a vitals cart. “You’ll be able to see when things quiet down, and they’ll let you back here again.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but fortunately, McGee yanked me away and sat me down before I could.
“You can’t control this, boss,” he reminded me. “And throwing a fit won’t help.”
I remembered Reagan telling me almost the same thing the first night we spent together—was it really just two weeks ago? Sorry to break it to you, but there are some things in life you don’t control, and you don’t get to have a tantrum about them. Ironically, I’d never felt as out of control in my life as I had in the days since he’d said that.
“He couldn’t breathe,” I told McGee. My voice cracked. “And here I am, sitting in the most uncomfortable torture chair anyone’s ever invented, wearing a paper mask, like a useless lump of shit. Why have millions of fucking dollars if I can’t make sure something like this doesn’t happen? What if—? What if he—? I haven’t even told him…”
McGee’s bruised eyes held an expression of mingled affection and pity. “Look around, Thatcher. He’s not coding. Nobody’s panicking. From what I saw, Reagan has one of those nose things for oxygen, but he’s not on a ventilator or whatever. They just needed to get your giant ass out of the way so they could treat him.” He bumped his shoulder into mine. “So instead of thinking up worst-case what-ifs, think about what if he gets the treatment he needs? What if he’s wide-awake tomorrow, giving me shit and turning your whole life upside down? What if you get a chance to tell him all your big, schmoopy love-motions. ’Cause that’s way more likely.” He leaned his huge frame back in the creaky plastic seat and crossed his ankle over his knee. “And I personally can’t wait for it. Thatcher Pennington is all up in his feels. Fucking finally.”
I glared at him, but activity behind Reagan’s curtain saved McGee from getting a fat lip to match his nose and eyes. A short while later, a young doctor came over. “No one’s officially read the X-ray yet, but I’m pretty confident it’s pneumonia. His ox levels are stabilized, so we’re starting him on medicine now and will begin breathing treatment upstairs once he’s admitted.”