He studies me in silence, regarding me with a look that makes it clear he doesn’t think that’s it. “This has happened before.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The look on your face when you smelled your coffee the other morning. Erratic appetite. Extreme fatigue lately.”
The man’s a damn detective.
“I’ve been wondering if I might be coming down with something. Like a cold. I just didn’t want to be a bother.”
He shakes his head. “Not a bother. Not in the slightest.” I smile at the sweet words. Roman tilts his head back. “Are those the only symptoms? Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
Another beat studying me before he looks away and starts down the hallway again. I hurry to his side, a light tinge of nausea hitting me again. We reach the other wing, his door on one side, mine on the other.
“Get some rest,” he says, nodding toward my door. “See how you feel in the morning.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “Another nausea spell and we call the doctor. Understand? I’m not taking chances with your safetyoryour health.”
I nod. Why do I suddenly feel found out?
He leans in and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Sleep well.” He turns and goes into his room, the door shutting with a soft click.
It’s nothing.
I want to believe that whatever’s going on, whatever’s making me feel queasy, is nothing.
Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s much bigger than nothing.
CHAPTER 36
AMALIE
The paper on the exam table crinkles underneath me. I’m sitting with my hands folded in my lap, trying to pretend I’m not about to have a damn panic attack. My heart bangs in my chest like I’m expecting the doctor to come in and tell me I have a terminal illness.
My mind keeps going back to the way Roman watched me as I winced when I’d lifted my coffee mug to my lips, the smell of it suddenly way too much. I set it down, pushed the mug away.
Of course he noticed, he notices everything. And he knows I love coffee.
“You are seeing a doctor,” he’d said.
“I’m fine. Really.”
There was no shift in his expression.
“Tonight is the night of the charity gala. But even if it weren’t, I’m not taking chances with your health. You are seeing a doctor.”
A call was made, a car arranged. Andrei waited by the entryway until I was ready, and we were off. Roman hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t repeated himself. A few words paired with a look were the only things needed to get me here.
The fluorescent lights beat down from above, the smell of antiseptic hanging in the air. That smell should make me nauseous.
The door opens softly and in steps Dr. Irina Kovacs. She’s one of Roman’s personal physicians—a doctor who takes her normal set of patients but clears her schedule instantly if Roman calls on her.
She smiles at me warmly. “Alright my dear. Let’s talk.” There’s a tinge of an accent on her words, but I can’t place it.
She reviews the chart, asking all of her questions in a professional but gentle tone. Finally, she sets the clipboard aside and looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Amalie,” she says lightly, “these symptoms together—especially the nausea triggered by smell and the sudden aversion to coffee—make me come to one conclusion.”
