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“I’m telling you, he sounded awful.” JT waved his phone at his mother. “He’s coughing so hard he’s gasping, and he’s not making any sense. I’d fly to Madison myself, but I’ve got three client meetings scheduled back-to-back today. Flynn said my family was more important, but?—”
“Wait, are you talking about Reagan?” I demanded. “He’s sick?”
JT turned to me in surprise, either because I was up so early or because I’d butted in on what was clearly a family conversation, but he didn’t hesitate to explain. “Yes. Very. He texted me before dawn, asking me to look up an urgent care near his hotel. He says he can’t make Google work.” JT pushed a hand through his hair and gave Patricia a hard look. “When Reagan can’t work his phone, it’s serious.”
I fumbled for my own phone and called Reagan, but it went to voicemail after several rings. When that didn’t work, I texted him.
Me: I’ll find a doctor for you, okay? Baby, please tell me you’re alright.
Surely there had to be a nurse or doctor who would do a house call if I paid them enough. After a few moments, there was no response. Damn it. What if he was passed out? What if he was alone in a hotel room with no one to notice whether he was conscious or not? What if he needed me and I wasn’t there because I’d made the wrong choices and prioritized the wrong things again?
It felt like for the second time in my life, I was watching someone I cared about fall off a cliff. Only this time, I wasn’t there to jump in after him?—
Except I could be.
I could be.
Fuck.
I glanced up at JT. “Is he answering your texts? Tell him to call me.”
He glanced down at his phone, then back up at me. He shook his head, face grim.
Without a word, I raced out of the room to look for McGee. Behind me, I heard Patricia murmur, “Thatcher must be worried Reagan won’t make his meeting in Madison. Tsk. The poor man. He was too preoccupied with Brantleigh last night to even enjoy our after-dinner conversation, and now he’s got to deal with this, too.”
“Mother, focus. We’re concerned about Reagan right now,” JT said.
“I am concerned, Jonathan! I told you I was concerned after his announcement yesterday morning, too. I can be concerned about more than one thing at a time,” Patricia insisted.
I left JT to handle Patricia because I was already dialing January, who was awake and immediately alert.
“Boss? You never call at this hour.”
“I need a plane from Honeybridge to Madison, Wisconsin, January. As soon as possible.”
“Uh. Alright.” She typed furiously. “The company jet is currently refueling to come back to Honeybridge. It’ll be there in three hours.”
“Too long.” I paced across the living room. “I need something faster.”
“Why? What’s going on?” she demanded. “Is there a problem?”
“Reagan’s in Madison, and he has the flu. I don’t know how severe it is, but he’s not answering texts. I need to get there as soon as possible.”
“You?” January repeated. “You’re going?”
“You’re going?” JT asked from behind me. “Yourself?”
“Yes,” I answered both of them.
JT looked instantly relieved. January, meanwhile, sounded anything but.
“Thatcher, the only way to get there faster is flying commercial out of Portland,” she said, “and you don’t fly?—”
“Today I do.” I ignored the way my stomach churned and my breathing spiked at just the thought of leaving the ground, but I couldn’t chance medication if I wanted to be alert enough to see Reagan when I landed. “I’ll get through it. I can’t let him be alone.”
“Alright, I’m booking you now,” January said, typing once again. “And I’ll send the information to McGee.” She hesitated for a moment. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I disconnected and immediately headed for the front door, but JT blocked my path.
