Page 54 of Saved By the CEO

“Okay,” I say again, because apparently that is the only word I brought with me to New York.

His gaze moves briefly down the hallway before returning to me. “We should do the treatment afterward.”

For a second, I just look at him. “It’s only been three days,” I say.

“I know.” He slides the key card between his fingers, turning it once before stilling it against his palm. “But we’ll be busy all day tomorrow, and I’m not risking another fever spike.”

“Okay,” I say.

His eyes hold mine for a moment.

Then he gives me a quick nod and steps back. “I’ll see you after dinner.”

“Sure.”

He turns and walks toward his own room. I stand there with my key card in my hand, watching him disappear inside.

It’s almost midnight.I’m sitting on the hotel bed in pajamas, eating Pringles straight from the can, watching trashyTV. I finished preparing for tomorrow’s meetings two hours ago and haven’t moved since.

Andrew still hasn’t shown up.

I texted him an hour ago, asking if I should go to bed. His reply was short and to the point:no.

My phone rings, and for a split second, my stomach flips. Then I see the name on the screen.

Josh.

I stare at it, already tired.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet. “Are you busy?”

I look at the TV, where a woman in a sequined dress is screaming at another woman in a sequined dress. “Not really.”

There’s a pause.

I close my eyes because I already know where this is going. “Josh, I thought we said we’d talk after New York.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know we did. I just—” He lets out a breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it, about you being there with him.”

There it is.

I sit up a little straighter, brushing Pringles crumbs off my pajama top. “This isn’t some romantic getaway, okay? It’s a business trip.”

“But you still have the virus. You still have to—” He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish.

“Yes,” I snap. “I still have to treat the virus. You know, the virus that willliterallykill me if it’s not managed properly.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Good.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I just hate thinking about it.”

I laugh once, humorless and tired. “Yeah, well, imagine how I feel.”

The line goes so silent I can hear the faint buzz of the hotel air-conditioning, and suddenly I’m done. Completely, bone-deep done. With the guilt. With the awkwardness. With having to make him feel better about something that’s happening to me.