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“Since I was a teenager.”
“Are they always this bad?”
Devaney choked on a laugh. “You mean do I always throw up? No. I always get nauseated though. But I can usually manage to not actually puke.”
“Is this the worst of it?”
She hesitated, pinched her lips between her teeth, but then Doctor Southerland was urging her chin up and she let her hands fall.
“Tell me the truth, Devaney. Is your migraine going to get worse or is this as bad as it gets?”
She felt like shit with her head aching, her stomach roiling, humiliation burning her cheeks, but the way he was touching her—his fingers grasping her chin and tilting her face to look up into his dark eyes and the big hand splayed over her back was so nice. Supportive and firm, almost possessive in a way she loved.
“Worse,” she whispered, and flinched as he frowned.
“Oh, hey. Don’t be scared. I’m sorry, I—”
Doctor Southerland released her chin, removed his hand from her back and took a couple steps away from her. When he did, she felt the absence of his touch like the sun going behind a cloud. She wanted it back, warm and comforting.
Carter had hit her a few times—when he’d been drinking and he’d gotten really angry with her—but bracing to be slapped was a gut reaction now to men looking cross. Which had of course infuriated Carter even more because it made him feel like a brute and he wanted to be civilized.
“I’m not angry, and I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I get frustrated when people don’t feel well and I can’t make it better right away, that’s all.”
“Okay. Well, I have to get the boys home, so again, I’m sorry about your floor and if you weren't such a good doctor and the boys didn’t like you so much I’d probably switch their pediatrician because that was so embarrassing. Next time we come see you I’ll just tell myself you forgot about the mom who barfed in your exam room. So, um, thanks, and see you next year.”
