Page 50 of None Of Your Business

A dark, angry bruise is blooming along her left temple.

“How’s your head?” I ask.

“Better than yesterday.”

“Dizzy?”

“Less.”

“Nausea?”

“Nope.” She points her fork at me. “I’m fine. You can run a full diagnostic, but the conclusion’s going to be the same.”

“Good.”

“That’s it? No flashlight in my eyes?”

“Did you want one?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then eat.”

Twenty minutes later, the food is gone. She’s back to her usual stubborn self, which means I have zero clinical reason to keep standing in her living room.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, standing up.

“Bold of you to assume I have a ‘to it.’” She offers a small, quiet smile. “Thank you,” she says, her voice losing its bite. “For the food. And yesterday.”

Shit. She means it. Even if she’s slightly annoyed about having to admit it out loud.

“You’re welcome.”

I turn toward the hallway, but before I can take two steps, a shadow falls across the frosted-glass panel of the front door.

Rowan gasps. “Don’t go out there.”

She’s already on her feet, moving with alarming speed for someone with a taped ankle and a concussion, her eyes wide with panic.

“It’s Piper,” she whispers frantically, hands flying to her hair. “She’ll see a doctor leaving my house at eight in the morning and ask five thousand questions.”

“I can explain that I was checking on you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because then she’ll ask why you were checking on me.”

“You hit your head.”

“And then she’ll ask how.”

“You fainted.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Hudson. How did you make it through medical school?” She stares at me like I’m dense.

Then I remember our conversation from last night.