Page 127 of Darling Venom
I couldn’t.
I had no clue what was happening. Which only made it scarier, because her face had ballooned, and I felt like I was holding someone else’s hand, not hers.
I settled on the truth. Vague, but real.
“Dr. Marchetti is the best obstetrician in the city.”
“You’re right.” She exhaled and nodded, pulling her shoulders back. “He is. He’ll figure this out.”
When we got to the hospital, two nurses helped Reagan into a wheelchair, carting her inside. I followed with our bags and sent a text to her mom, asking her to come to the eighteenth floor.
They put Reagan in a private room on an upper level of the boutique hospital, which was how we knew they were taking this seriously.
I informed Reagan her mom was on the way, then stepped into the hall while a nurse and physician’s aid stripped her, helped her into a backless hospital gown, and began some standard tests.
I parked myself in front of the curved reception desk, finding the nurse that wheeled Reagan up. “Is there an ETA on Dr. Marchetti?”
“He was grabbing a quick bite to eat, but he left as soon as he got the page. He should be here any moment now.”
And sure enough, Tate stormed into the hall through the same door we’d entered, dressed in nice slacks and a cashmere sweater.
He settled beside me without paying me any attention, his focus on the nurse. “The patient?”
I pointed to the nearest door. “That exam room.”
“The patient?” he r
epeated, still staring at the nurse.
He could hear me.
I knew he could.
She pointed at the same door. “Exam room three.”
“Thank you, Marie.”
Tate gave me his back.
It struck me how much the tables had turned. He’d been the one to chase me into the subway. Now his back was a view I was quickly getting used to. And one I didn’t enjoy. Not after the bruise to my ego left by his rejection.
Tate Marchetti was dead set on ending any possibility of us taking our attraction a step further. He went out of his way to avoid me. I was literate. I could read between the lines.
My gaze dropped lower. I noticed something tucked into his back pocket. Distinct red-and-white skull stickers peeked past the wool.
Holy crap.
My letter.
The one I’d written after receiving the signed copy of The Imperfections. The one I thought I’d shredded. The one in which I accused him of being a coward for not handing the book to me himself.
Fuck.
I jerked toward the exit, seconds from fleeing, joining witness protection, and living the rest of my life under an alias. Then I remembered Reagan’s condition and stayed, dipping behind a potted plant every time I thought I spotted Tate.
An hour passed.
Tate exited Reagan’s room with a clipboard and a scowl directed at the world. Reagan’s mom slipped out of the room fifteen minutes later.
