Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
He also kept me from murdering the hotel manager, who refused to let me into Reagan’s room and calmly reminded her that the hotel would be liable for anything that happened to Reagan if they refused to enter the room and perform a wellness check immediately.
The second the door was unlocked, I ran inside first and found Reagan on the bed, swaddled under a mountain of bedding, clinging to a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade like it was a security blanket.
“Oh, baby, fuck.” I peeled the sweat-soaked covers down and saw a pale, shivering Reagan underneath. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now. You’re going to be okay. You hear me?”
“Thatcher?” His forehead crinkled as his eyes cracked open, and even though the aquamarine was cloudy with sleep and sickness, just seeing them made me calmer than I’d felt in days.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’ve got you. We’re going to get you to the hospital. But first…” My eyes met McGee’s. “Get me a cold cloth, please. And you—” I glared at the manager, who’d covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve and was trying to back out into the hallway. “Where’s the nearest emergency room?”
“UW Hospital,” she said promptly. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No. I’ll take him myself.” I grabbed the cloth from McGee and bathed Reagan’s face with it.
“Don… ned… a’merency rum.” He could barely talk through the chattering of his teeth.
“Baby, you do. You’re burning up.” I spied a bottle of fever reducer on the nightstand. “When was the last time you took this?” I asked, holding the bottle where he could see it.
He began to speak but ended up coughing. He hacked out something like, “When JT told me to?”
I’d been texting JT throughout the flight, and I knew they’d spoken a couple of hours before. The medicine should have still been working.
“You need something stronger,” I told Reagan. “Come on. Let’s get you up. McGee, get him clothes from his suitcase.”
“’M fine. No trouble,” Reagan insisted, squirming away.
McGee threw a hoodie and sweatpants on the bed, then patted Reagan’s ankle gently through the blanket. “I hate to tell you, princess, but you look rough. You’d better listen to the boss man, okay?”
Reagan barely opened his gorgeous eyes. “M’Gee? Sorry I… made fun. You don’ have wrinkles.”
At that, McGee looked more nervous than he had all day. “Are you fucking kidding? Of course I do. Billions of them. And you’ll tell me all about them when you’re better, you hear?”
“Out,” I barked at McGee and the manager. “I’m getting Reagan dressed.”
As soon as they were gone, I pulled the covers back and attempted to wrestle the shirt over Reagan’s head and the pants onto his legs. His muscles were too listless to put up much fight, but he seemed not to understand what was happening. Every time he closed his eyes and opened them again, he seemed freshly shocked to find me there.
“Reagan, baby, let me take care of you,” I finally said, as gently as I could. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Trust me.”
“H-how?” He sounded like he might cry.
I wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking, but I pulled far enough back to meet his glassy eyes and gave him the only answer I had.
“Because I love you,” I said firmly. “I love you, so I flew to you—on a fucking airplane, through the goddamn sky—in case you needed me. Because I will always come when you need me. And I don’t ever want you to be alone.”
He stared at me in shock for a long moment before his face fell and tears filled his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he sobbed. “I’m ha-hallucinating.”
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his burning forehead. “You’re not. I’m here. And I’m not leaving you. Not ever. Understand?”
“Yes,” he whispered sadly. “I understand everything now. Layla did it.”
I bundled the hotel comforter around him for the journey. “I know, sweetheart. You probably caught Layla’s flu, and then she sent you away. She and I are going to have words about that,” I said ominously. “About all of that.”
“No, no,” he insisted. “The shirt. It’s Layla’s…” He let out a breath and closed his eyes. “I told her to tell you.”
“Reagan?” I jostled him gently and then more firmly when he didn’t respond. “Reagan?” He still didn’t answer, and his chest visibly shook with each shallow inhale.
Fuck.
“McGee,” I shouted. “Time to go. Find his coat. I have his shoes.”
The next hour and a half was a nightmare. I spent most of my life in a protective bubble of power and wealth, but ninety helpless minutes watching Reagan float in and out of awareness while struggling to breathe was enough to remind me just how fragile and useless that bubble was when it came to protecting what truly mattered. Holding his body against me in the car and the ER waiting room was the only thing keeping me remotely sane.