Page 106 of Late Harvest

“Want to join me in some non-malicious industry gossip and speculation?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Bash rubbed his hands gleefully. “Lay on, McDuff. Let’s do this.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

What did the sheet say to the bed?

Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.

—Dear God…I’m turning into Sebastian…

Remy

Remy dropped into the lounge’s cafeteria-style chair, breathing through her nose. Toward the end of her most recent case, her stomach had cramped and her mouth began to water. She’d indicated for Lucia to close—a task the physician assistant was well trained to do and often performed for Remy when she alternated between ORs.

Her stomach cramped again—harder—and Remy eyed the entrance to the women’s locker room, wondering if she’d make it to a stall before losing the contents of her stomach. A sour burning surged up her esophagus and she bolted for the door, praying she wouldn’t flatten anyone as she slammed it open.

Remy fell to her knees in front of the toilet and retched until her stomach ached.

Fucking hell.

She wiped her mouth and leaned against the partition, the cool metal heaven against her overheated skin.

“Dr. Remington?” Her surgical tech, Shukri, called out from the doorway. Remy hadn’t bothered to close the stall door. “You got whacked, didn’t you?” Sympathy tinged her voice. “I saw you rush out and then I heard you getting sick. Here. I brought you a cup of water to rinse the taste of sick out of your mouth.” She handed a paper cup to Remy. “Another one bites the dust,” Shukri continued, as Remy swished and spit into the porcelain god she’d just unwillingly worshipped, praying another wave would stay at bay. “We seem to have a norovirus sweeping through. You’re the fifth person I’ve heard of with it.”

Remy dropped her head on her bent knees. “I’m not sick,” she mumbled. “I don’t get sick.”

“You want some help standing up?” Shukri reached a hand out to Remy and helped tug her to a standing position. “Don’t worry. I’ll use proper hand hygiene so I don’t catch your germs.”

“I’m not sick,” Remy repeated wanly, pressing a hand to her stomach at another telltale cramp.

There was a sharp knock on the locker room door.

“I called Dr. Desai right before I came in. He said he was getting your guard to drive you home. That must be him.”

Remy groaned. “I have cases this afternoon.”

“Not anymore you don’t.” Instead of Brinder or her guard, Sebastian stood in the doorway, concern wrinkling his brow as worried eyes scanned her. “My poor Scrub Angel.” He moved toward her, nodding at Shukri. “Thanks for calling in the cavalry. I was in the area when I got the message about my angel from Brinder—er, Dr. Desai.”

“Of—of course,” she stammered, clearly overwhelmed at the celebrity standing in the bathroom of the women’s locker room.

“I have more cases.” Remy winced. That came out too much like a whine.

Now Brinder stepped into the bathroom, further crowding the space. If she didn’t feel like such horseshit, it would’ve been funny. These two gorgeous, brooding, worried men hovering over her, alongside a normally unflappable surgical nurse with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“I’ve already reassigned them. I told your patients you’re ill. I gave them the choice of rescheduling with you or having another doctor perform it. Dr. Slattery is coming out of clinic to finish your cases for you,” he continued calmly, speaking of her partner, a fortysomething orthopedist with phenomenal skills. “You get home, spend the weekend resting, and you’ll be back in your OR on Monday. Please don’t worry.” Brinder gave her a kind, but firm smile—his eyes showing that exact worry he was warning her against—and softened his voice even more. “Just get well.”

Remy was quite sure she looked like a swamp creature. And smelled like one too.

Fuck. Her stomach cramped again, hard. The next wave knocked her sideways—figuratively and nearly literally. She doubled over and proceeded to puke all over her boss’s fancy Italian brogues.

Ten hours of utter misery. First the throwing up. Then her system seemed to reverse course and she couldn’t get off the toilet. All the while, a fever with chills coursed through her.

By nine that evening, Remy was a sweaty, exhausted, literally drained mess. She barely had any energy, and her abs ached like she’d just finished one thousand sit-ups.

“Hey you,” a tender voice came from the bedroom doorway. “I have some ginger ale, Gatorade, and saltines.”

Remy groaned at the idea of putting anything in her body. “Nooo. I can’t,” she managed, not even wanting to move her lips for fear it would start a fresh wave, even though she’d finally stopped throwing up bile an hour earlier.