“I already told you I’m not sharing that information. Nothing’s changed.”
He studies me, and I watch him decide not to push. Or call me out on the lie. Because last night changed everything.
“The same hotel as last night,” I say slowly.
“That works. For now.”
“Now is all we have,” I tell him, but a thought trails behind my words unbidden.
It could be more.
When he stands and offers me his hand, I pop the final cherry from my glass into my mouth and then take it. My breath hitches as his fingers close around mine, and we walk out of The Alcove into the humid Nashville night.
Sutton—a woman with no acute lymphocytic leukemia diagnosis, who doesn’t have an appointment with the head of Vanderbilt oncology, a friend her aforementioned micromanaging brother’s—walks the three blocks to the upscale chain hotel, holding hands with a man who makes her laugh.
I’m dressedand leaving the hotel room at six fifteen, before the pale light filtering in from the edges of the beige curtain has fully committed to a new day.
Jensen is sprawled face down on the bed, the white sheets covering the lower half of his perfect body, and I let myself stare at him for ten seconds. I count them because, without the numerical boundary, I’ll keep standing here until the sun comes up and I miss the appointment my billionaire brother moved heaven and earth (ask him) to arrange. My gaze roams over Jensen’s muscled back and the ink on his right bicep. His chest rises and falls with a steadiness that stirs an ache in me that has nothing to do with the malignant cells currently multiplying in my bloodstream.
The door handle is cool under my palm when his deep voice stops me.
“I’ll see you tonight, Sutton.”
I don’t turn around, but I want to. I want to crawl back into that bed and forget every reason I had for getting out of it. But I can’t afford to forget anything today.
“If you’re lucky,” I say to the door.
“I was born lucky.”
A laugh bubbles out of my throat as I slip into the hallway. He has zero idea how much I hope some of that luck has rubbed off on me.
My hotel is a block from this one, so I have time to shower and change clothes before starting the fifteen-minute walk to Vanderbilt University Medical Center. I pretend I’m Sutton as I cut through Centennial Park, past the Parthenon replica that has always struck me as gloriously weird. Who builds a full-scale Parthenon in a park in Tennessee? Nashvillians, apparently. I love that this city doesn’t apologize for the contradictions that make it special: honky-tonks next to the symphony center, fried bologna served down the street from white-tablecloth restaurants, a Greek temple in the middle of a public park. Right now, I’d like to absorb a little of that energy.
Jeremy is already in the lobby of the medical center when I arrive, because Jeremy is always already wherever he’s supposed to be. He lives in California, but flew in from a congressional meeting in D.C. this morning. He’s wearing a button-down with his initials monogrammed on the cuff, and an expression that suggests the world is a problem he’s been personally tasked with fixing. Or maybe I’m the problem.
“I sent a car to the hotel.”
“I wanted to walk. Morning sunlight in my eyeballs and all that.” I wave a hand at him. “You should try it. They say fresh air can help with personality disorders.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I want help.” He soundsannoyed, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. My brother is human underneath all that irritating arrogance. At least I think he is.
He takes a moment to scan me head to toe, visually cataloging whether I look sicker than the last time he saw me. I’ve gotten used to being inventoried by my brother. It’s how he says I’m terrified of losing you, which is both sweet and its own kind of scary.
“Your cheeks are pink.”
“I walked fast.” I touch two fingers to my heated skin, thinking the flush might be left over from the three orgasms I had last night.Three. Obviously, I don’t mention that theory to Jeremy.
He shakes his head. “Next time, take the car.”
“Maybe this will be the only time.” I’m planning to have the first round of chemo in Colorado, but Jeremy insisted I see his friend for a second opinion on the overall treatment plan. I hook my arm through his because physical contact is the fastest way to disarm my brother, and despite his penchant for hovering, I’m glad he’s here. “Let’s go.”
We take the elevator to the third floor, where a nurse in floral scrubs leads me down the hall to an exam room while Jeremy catches up with his friend the doctor in his private office.
There’s a corkboard on the wall opposite the exam table, with photos and thank-you cards tacked to it. I’m casually scanning it as the nurse takes my blood pressure, when one photograph suddenly catches my attention. The man I left tangled in the sheets an hour ago is sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with a guitar across his lap and three patients gathered around him. The young woman beside him in the photo is grinning, her bald head wrapped in a bright yellow bandana.
My brain stops, and my lungs forget how to function.
The nurse follows my wide-eyed gaze. “Oh, do you know Jensen Grant?” she asks brightly.
