“But I didn’t. Okay?”
“Someone needs to make sure you eat. And sleep. And relax. Who’s going to ensure you manage your blood sugar?”
When her doctor gave the litany of her symptoms and said the word diabetes, even with the word “pre” in front of it, I broke out in a cold sweat. Especially when Emma admitted it ran in her family.
My grandmother died of complications from diabetes. She’d always lived in the moment, never turned down a cocktail, and never managed her disease.
“I’ll take care of myself like I always do.”
“Emma, you focus so much on everyone else. But you also need to take care of yourself,” Daisy insists.
“You know the saying that the cobbler’s son has no shoes,” Olivia says.
“Ooh, I love shoe metaphors,” Daisy exclaims.
“The cobbler is always making shoes for everyone else, so she has no time to make them for her kids. That’s you, Emma,” Olivia explains. “You’re so busy taking care of everyone else and organizing their lives, you neglect your own.”
I realize Olivia is right. Guilt pierces my heart. I was part of the problem. It’s my fault Emma overworked herself. She’s basically been doing two full-time jobs ever since she put in her notice. I should have realized and insisted she slow down.
Now it’s too late. Now that she’s no longer in my employ, I can’t make sure she gets the proper rest. And she’ll continue to overwork herself to get her business positioned for success.
I know what I have to do. Emma will never ask anyone for help, not her friends or her family. So if I can’t use her status as my assistant to force her to take it easy, I’m going to use whatever is at my disposal.
“You know we’re right. You have to let us take care of you. So, who will it be?” Daisy asks just as a nurse shuffles into the room.
“It’s obvious. She’s my fiancée,” I say with absolute conviction. “So she’s coming home with me.”
CHAPTER 23
Emma
“You’ve officially lost it.I amnotyour fiancée, fake or otherwise. You had your fun driving me crazy. Now it’s done,” I pronounce as I stare out the window of the black SUV heading home from the hospital a couple days later.
Sebastian has always been impulsive and given to wild ideas. But even for him, this is next level.
It doesn’t matter that I haven’t agreed to be his pretend doting fiancée. He still played the part throughout the rest of my hospital visit.
He instructed Matt to send one hundred white roses to my room, which looked like a botanical garden. Whenever a nurse checked on me, he’d take my hand and rub my palm with caressing fingers. Or he’d press a tender kiss to my forehead, looking longingly into my eyes.
The playacting has me frustrated. And maybe a little turned on. I can’t help it; I’m only human. I was left with an ache in my center and deeply confused. He’s a talented actor, so I shouldn’t melt into his touch. I shouldn’t wish that those sweet brushes ofskin on skin and gentle kisses were real. I shouldn’t be so happy that he was there when I went to bed and there when I woke, continuing to bypass visiting hours in some Sebastian-like way.
It’s not like he hasn’t been busy. I know how many events he canceled during that time. I know, because I’d scheduled them. And they were important to his career. The man wasn’t missing a deep-tissue massage.
Every time I tried to convince him to leave, he ignored me, saying he liked that no one bothered him at the hospital and that if he’d discovered this cheat code to being left alone years ago, he would have scheduled some benign operation on a regular basis.
He had a standing order for our favorite coffee delivery and had Matt bring stacks of scripts. Sebastian spent hours listening to tapes from his language teacher, who is helping him perfect his upper-crust British accent for an upcoming role.
I can’t lie, that also left me turned on.
I wasn’t allowed screens, so when I wasn’t sleeping, something I did for a ridiculous amount of time, he read me his scripts in goofy accents, making me laugh so hard I cried. He kept me entertained with all the latest industry gossip. And he somehow got an early copy of Evie Adelade’s latest album before it was released. We listened to it on a special device, sharing a set of wired headphones, both crowded on the small hospital bed, our bodies tight against each other, tingling awareness heating my oversensitized skin where we touched. He didn’t even complain when I wanted to listen to it over and over.
My doctor discharged me after three nights in the hospital, with a warning that I needed someone to watch me for a few more nights. And he had a long list of dos and don’ts, explaining that symptoms like nausea, headaches, vertigo, and more would likely persist.
“You’re breaking my heart here, Em,” Sebastian says in a silky murmur that sends shivers down my spine.
“As if I ever could,” I grumble. “Besides, even with that stupid article, I’m still hoping no one will believe we’re actually engaged.”
I don’t specify which article. The Charlotte Jones profile or the one where Allegra tells the world that she didn’t sleep with Sebastian.
