We settled on the ridiculously large bed, surrounded by various dishes. I ate more than I thought possible, the food somehow both comforting and exquisite. Matt’s phone buzzed occasionally with updates about Mia, each one reassuring.
Eventually, even keeping my eyes open became too much effort. Matt cleared the bed while I fought a losing battle with consciousness.
“Sleep, pup.” His voice seemed to come from far away as he pulled me against his chest. “I’ve got you.”
For the first time in two days, I let myself fully relax, safe in Matt’s arms. My last coherent thought was how different everything was now, having someone to lean on when things got rough.
Then sleep claimed me, deep and dreamless.
The hospital corridor smelled like industrial-strength disinfectant and bad coffee. Not exactly the aromatherapy package I’d choose. Three days since we’d found Mia, and the nurses had already learned to dodge my daily invasion of their territory.
I pushed open Mia’s door, armed with contraband Starbucks and a smile that only slightly resembled a grimace. “Your favorite dealer is here.”
Mia perked up in her hospital bed, looking better than yesterday—which, granted, wasn’t hard considering she’d looked like she’d gone ten rounds with a meat tenderizer. “Please tell me that’s a real coffee and not this hospital sludge.”
“Venti caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra sweet, just like your darling baby brother.” I handed it over with a flourish. “Though if James asks, I brought you hospital-approved green tea.”
“My hero.” She took a grateful sip, then narrowed her eyes. “Did Matt let you drive here?”
I snorted, settling into the chair beside her bed. “Please. I had to promise my firstborn child just to get the keys to his precious car. Then Bruno and Tyrone insisted on playing chauffeur anyway.” I rolled my eyes. “I swear, between Matt’s overprotectiveness and James’ security detail, I’m starting tofeel like a state secret. Though with significantly less nuclear codes and way better hair.”
“Poor baby,” Mia cooed mockingly. “Such a hard life, being pampered by a hot billionaire.”
“How’s the food here? Still trying to poison you with mystery meat?”
She gestured to her untouched tray. “Want to find out?”
“I value my life too much, thanks.” I poked at what might have been meatloaf. “Though I hear James is having his personal chef prepare your meals once you’re home.”
“Home,” she echoed softly, and I caught the wonder in her voice.
“Yeah, well, beats our old apartment where the hot water worked maybe three days a year.” I kept my tone light, but I meant it. James’ mansion was exactly where Mia belonged—safe, protected, loved.
Mia laughed, wincing slightly. “Still hurts to laugh but worth it. So, how many times has Matt texted you since you left?”
I checked my phone. “Only seventeen. He’s showing remarkable restraint today.” The screen lit up. “Make that eighteen. Oh, and look who just sent a selfie from The Maxwell’s casino floor?”
“Finley?” Mia brightened. “How is he?”
“Living his best life as usual. Says he nearly crashed into another palm tree, but Ethan saved both the tree and his dignity.” I showed her the picture of Fin’s dramatic pout. “He’s threatening to come visit, by the way. I told him there’s no way in hell I’m letting him drive in LA traffic. The palm trees have suffered enough.”
“You’re terrible.” She swatted at me but laughed anyway. “Speaking of terrible, this Jell-O is an offense to desserts everywhere.”
“Want me to call James? I’m sure he can have Michelin-starred room service here within the hour to personally apologize for this culinary crime.”
“Don’t tempt me.” She pushed the tray away. “Though I wouldn’t say no to some real food when I get out of here.”
“Already handled. Scott’s arranging this whole welcome home feast thing. Apparently, the Maxwell brothers take their dinner parties very seriously.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Eric’s words were, and I quote,If the food doesn’t make you forget you were ever in this hospital, I’m disowning the chef.”
“They’re good people,” Mia said softly.
“Yeah.” I squeezed her hand. “They are.”
I checked my phone again. “Nineteen texts now. I think that’s a new record, even for?—”
The door burst open, and Matt filled the frame like some sort of billionaire-shaped storm cloud. “You haven’t replied to a single one!”
“I was admiring your dedication to filling up my inbox,” I deadpanned. “Though I particularly enjoyed the one about sending a search party if I didn’t respond in five minutes. Very dramatic. Almost as dramatic as certain casino owners I could name.”
