Page 56 of None Of Your Business

“You panicked… sexually?”

“I didn’t know what to do.” I point at her when her cheeks start to shake. “Don’t you dare.”

“You said—” She gasps, drawing in air. “You said he drove you through the headboard. He’s a psychiatrist, Rowan!”

“I fail to see how his medical degree limits his physical capabilities.”

Why am I defending him right now?

“I panicked,” I repeat, hoping she drops it. “I don’t know what else to say.”

She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “You could have told me before I thought he was trying to kill us.”

“That occurred to me in hindsight.”

A dry chuckle slips out before I can stop it. I wince and press two fingers to my temple.

The humor vanishes from Piper’s face.

“I’m fine,” I say, easing onto a barstool. “Concussion, remember?”

Seconds later, my phone buzzes on the counter. Piper’s eyes flick to the screen.

“Is that him?” she asks. “Give it here.”

“I’d rather swallow glass.” I snatch the device and slide it under my thigh.

“You like him.”

“I don’t like him. I’m protecting my right to privacy.”

“From me? You once sent me a photo of a mystery rash on your ass cheek.”

“I thought I was dying!”

She steps closer, bracing both hands on either side of me, caging me in for the interrogation. “Did you sleep with him?”

“No.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“No!”

“Then why were you hiding him? Why is a man you’re not sleeping with in your house this early?”

My hand tightens around my phone. I’m out of deflections.

“Where did you really fall yesterday?” she asks, searching my face. “You said the studio, but you didn’t, did you?”

I look down at my phone. “Westbrook Medical Center.”

Her forehead creases. “A medical center? What were you doing there?”

I take a deep breath. “I was going to group therapy.”

Piper pulls out a stool, sits down, and waits. A few years ago, she would have babbled to fill the silence, terrified of making anyone uncomfortable. Now she just sits there, giving me the space I need to hand over the truth.

“I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome,” I say, the words tasting like chalk on my tongue. “And POTS.”