Page 12 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

“That’s a bullshit question coming from you.”

The words escape my mouth before I register them.

Hurt widens her lashes and shrink her pupils, but she recovers with impressive speed.

“I’m not asking if you’re still angry about the accident in high school. I don’t expect you to forgive me; you have every right to deal with that however you need.” Her directness shocks me to my core. I’m usually the one barreling through obstacles with a similar stubborn forwardness, but her gentle tone yanks my anger out from under me. “What I’m asking is if there’s something I’ve done recently to set you off,” she clarifies.

If there were an ounce of condescension in her voice, I would leave the room without a backward glance, but the lack of judgment in her expression yanks my tongue into motion instead.

“You threw my daughter,” I snarl.

She blinks and looks up and to the side as she searches her memory.

“I threw her? When?” she asks.

Yet again, her tone lacks accusation and her expression carries confusion.

“In the atrium before the wedding,” I say.

The room falls silent as she digs deeper into her mental replay.

My insides tighten as I prepare for an outburst. Even though we’re in a professional setting, everything Regina told me about Millie—and the snippets of moments I remember from before the accident—paint her as an even bigger drama queen than Regina herself.

I couldn’t fix my relationship with my savior, but I can protect my daughter from another selfish woman.

Millie Grant wrecks my expectations by leaning forward in her seat, weaving her fingers together on top of the table, and responding in a calm, heartfelt tone.

“I agree it was irresponsible of me to toss a child I didn’t know, no matter how safe I thought the movement to be. I apologize. Is Lola alright?”

A bit of my tension melts away at the honest concern in her eyes.

“She’s okay. I checked her g-port directly after, and luckily it wasn’t damaged.”

My voice emerges rough and reluctant.

She tilts her head and asks, “Has she had issues with it before?”

“She has it replaced every three to six months,” I defend.

“That’s perfect. Good job staying on top of it. Has it slipped, clogged, or been infected?”

I shake my head.

“Is it low profile or standard?” she asks.

I blink and search my memory for the answer, but those specific words don’t match what the doctors described when we discussed putting in the feeding tube. Plus, Lola was only a year old when we spoke about it.

“Button or dangler?” Millie prompts.

Understanding dawns.

“She has a mickey button,” I respond.

Millie smiles and nods, and somehow the gesture eases the knot in my chest.

“MIC-KEY buttons are low profile and very durable. If she’s had regular replacements ever since the initial surgery,” she squints and looks up and to the side as she searches her memory, “a little over two years ago, and hasn’t had any other issues, she should be able to run, play, and roughhouse like a child who eats on their own—” I appreciate her refusal to say normal child as many of Lola’s providers have in the past, “—with just a little mindfulness of the device.” She pauses and studies me for a moment. “I’m not trying to downplay your concern or tell you to throw caution to the wind. I am truly sorry I caused you alarm. Have any doctors told you the port needs special care?” she asks.

I shake my head. She studies me.