“Mamma, non preoccuparti di questo. Non può farci causa solo per farci causa. È svenuta, non si è tagliata un dito.”Mom, don’t worry about that. She can’t sue us just to sue us. She fainted, she didn’t cut her finger off.
“Va bene, va bene, ciao.”Okay, okay, bye.
I push past the dryness in my throat and murmur, “I guess because I’m from California that makes me sue-happy?”
Nick whips around, startled. His phone nearly slips from his hand. His eyes find mine, and something flickers across his face—shock, relief, something softer, too.
“You’re awake. Wait… You speak Italian?”
“Un po’?”A little.I say weakly.A little.
His lips twitch. “You really love to surprise the shit out of me, don’t you.”
“And myself, apparently.” I glance around the stark hospital room. “What am I doing here?”
“You fainted.”
“I heard. But how?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like a doctor? That’s what we’re trying to figure out. The doc took some blood. Ran tests. You weren’t drinking on the job, were you?”
“No, smart ass.”
“Drugs?” His gaze sharpens, searching.
“No,” I snap, heat rising in my chest. That word burns.
“Because I don’t tolerate that shit. Favor or not, your ass will be fired if I ever catch you doing any of it.”
I prop myself up a little, ignoring the way my body protests. “Look, Commando, I drink. That’s not a secret. And yeah, I smoke occasionally. I’ve got a medical card for it. California, remember?” I lift a hand, palm open, like a surrender. “And I only do it to sleep. Nothing hardcore.”
“Doesn’t sound like your method’s been working.”
I glare at him, though my pulse flutters. “Thanks for the unsolicited therapy. You can go now. I don’t need another lecture from someone who barely knows me.”
He shrugs, calm and infuriating. “I promised Abigail I’d wait for the doctor. If they keep you another night, she’ll get you. If they don’t…” He smirks. “Then I’m your lucky ride.”
“I appreciate you being Captain Save-a-Hoe,” I mutter, voice dipped in sarcasm. “Real on brand—with the tattoos and military thing and all. But seriously, go. I’m fine. Abigail’s being hormonal.”
The door opens before he can reply. The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand. “Miss Thompson, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
I smile lazily. “I feel fine. And yeah, I’m awake—not in a coma or anything. You doctors love your dramatics.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, you lost consciousness. There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes. “Semantics.”
He clicks his pen. “Do you find yourself thirsty a lot? Urinating often?”
My stomach drops. Ya, I’m a functioning alcoholic. Of course I do.
“Yeah. Why?”
“We got your test results back,” he says, then glances at Nick. “I’m guessing this is your…”
“Boss. And a friend of a friend,” Nick says, his voice smooth but quieter now.
I give a dry laugh. “More like an enemy.”
