Her eyes sweep the room: the glass-and-steel perfection, the river glinting beyond it, the tension so loud it might as well have its own lighting.Then she looks at me—at my sweatpants, my hollow laugh, my “I’m totally fine” face—and finally at the two NHL-sized problems hovering like bodyguards who forgot the part where bodyguards don’t argue.
“Hi,” she says, calm and smooth.“Vesper Lafontaine?”
“That’s me,” I say.“Welcome to ...whatever this is.”
Her mouth ticks up, quick, restrained—like she has a sense of humor but bills by the minute.“I’m Dr.Nadia Ruiz.Concierge family medicine and urgent care.I got a summary, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Cally moves first, because of course he does.“She’s been?—”
“She can speak for herself,” Monty cuts in.
I shoot them both a look that should come with a referee whistle.
Dr.Ruiz’s gaze flicks between them, assessing.Not impressed.Not intimidated.Just ...concerned that my entourage is nosy as fuck.“Do you want them in the room?”
“I want them in the apartment,” I say.“I do not want them within hearing range.”
Monty’s jaw works like he hates every syllable, but he nods once and heads for the sliding doors that lead to the terrace.
Cally lifts both hands like he’s surrendering to the Geneva Convention.“Fine.Balcony.Not listening.Totally normal.”
“Great,” I tell him.“Go be normal.Also, do not kill each other.”
His grin is bright and smug and affectionate in a way that should make me feel safe and instead makes me feel ...vulnerable.Like he thinks he gets to be the one who keeps me together.Also with that smirk that says, “I might push him off, but that’s a risk you’re taking for sending us outside, sweetheart.”
Once both are outside, Dr.Ruiz gestures toward the kitchen island.“We can sit there.”
I walk over and perch on a stool.She sets her bag down, snaps open her tablet, sanitizes her hands with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t get rattled by famous overbearing athletes.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says.
I drag in a breath and decide to start with the version that makes me sound like a functioning adult.“Okay.I’m a journalist.I travel constantly.I haven’t slept.My dad fainted.My family’s camp is under county inspection and might be shut down right before summer.I flew from Finland to New York, then to Portland.I threw up on the side of the road this morning.And twice after that.So, you know.Very glamorous.Very, ‘I have my life together.’”
“Any fever?”
“No.”
“Diarrhea?”
I blink.“No.”
“Headache?”
“Only when people tell me to rest—” I stop myself, recalibrate.“I mean ...occasionally.”
“How often?”
“They linger,” I say, trying to keep it casual.“A little pulse-y.Nothing a couple pain relievers can’t handle.”
Dr.Ruiz doesn’t buy my casual.Not even a little.
“Chest pain?Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Abdominal pain?”
“Just nausea,” I say.“Like my stomach is holding a grudge against me.Probably for not eating more than once a day.”
