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Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corners of my lips beneath my own surgical mask as I thought about how to answer that. Employee? Friend’s son? Son’s childhood friend? He was all of those things to me, and for a long while, I’d thought that meant he couldn’t—shouldn’t—be more…
But he was. He was everything.
I was in love with him.
It might have taken a serious illness and a terrifying emergency plane ride for me to acknowledge it, but I wouldn’t deny it ever again. Reagan was mine.
Did I have a right to feel such complete and overwhelming ownership of Reagan Wellbridge? Absolutely not. Was it too fast, too complicated, too spontaneous, too risky? God yes, all of that. Would that stop me? No.
I no longer cared how our relationship would be perceived by the nurse, or our families, or anyone else in the damn world. Reagan could decide what label he wanted to put on us—if he wanted to label it at all—but it wouldn’t change the underlying truth: we belonged together. I just needed him to get well so I could convince him of that, too.
“…Reagan,” I supplied when the nurse still seemed to expect a response.
“Your… Reagan?” Eyebrow raised skeptically, he glanced from me to the man whose body was nestled in my arms. Then he shrugged. “Okay, then,” he agreed.
“Thatcher?” Reagan’s voice was breathy and weak. The nurse frowned at the monitor and reached for a nasal cannula to get some oxygen going under Reagan’s surgical mask.
I tightened my arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, babe. Right here.”
“Did Layla tell you? Is that why you’re here? I have proof, I swear. Get my laptop.”
My gut clenched. This again? The man was more out of it than I’d thought. “I came because you’re sick, Reagan. You’re in the hospital now, and you’re going to be fine, but please don’t even think about work?—”
“Layla… shirt,” he said, making no more sense now than when he’d said something similar back at the hotel. He winced, coughed raggedly, and closed his eyes for a brief moment before meeting mine again. “Sorry.”
The nurse shushed him. “Try not to talk, Reagan. We need to get your blood oxygen levels up. Focus on taking deep breaths in and out.”
I cupped the side of his face. His beard stubble was scratchy-soft on my palm. “That’s right. Don’t think about anything else right now. Just breathe innnnn… and ouuuut.”
He shook his head and tried to grab me with the hand that had the IV in it. The nurse and I both reached out to stop him and settle him back down.
He turned pleading eyes on me. “You have to believe me. About Layla. JT knows.” He closed his eyes as if gathering strength to say more, so I leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek through my mask.
“Okay. Shhh. I’ll call JT in a few minutes and ask him about it, okay? Will you just breathe now if I promise to talk to JT?”
“Read the email,” he murmured.
“I will. I will, baby. First thing, I promise,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, even though I didn’t know what he was talking about.
A machine began beeping, and I looked over and saw the pulse ox number drop at the same time the nurse pushed a button and called for help. Reagan’s eyes fluttered, and he looked even more pale than when I’d brought him in.
“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.
