Page 59 of A Very Irish Scandal

Crossing that doorstep had never been so easy.

He’d deposited her into the front seat and drove as fast as the narrow roads allowed.

A part of him knew she’d be fine. The fever had left her dehydrated. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. The other part wanted to tear through the hospital screaming until someone came, because dammit he was tired of feeling helpless.

For someone who’d spent more time over the last three years in hospitals than out of them, one would think he’d hate them, but walking inside felt familiar. Normal. The antiseptic smell, the squeak of shoes on linoleum, and the overlapping voices were oddly comforting, like white noise from a sleep machine.

Although he’d heard about the hours-long waits in the Accident and Emergency departments across Ireland, it must have been a slow day because the waiting room was empty. One of the two nurses at the triage desk asked him to remain in the waiting area while they saw to Addy, but he refused, tightening his hold. A third nurse walked them down a narrow hallway lined with cots to one of the many small cubicles partitioned off by blue curtains.

The nurse set the IV, drew blood, and ran a flu swab. An eternity later, the doctor stepped inside the cubicle. She spoke in short, efficient sentences, confirming what he already suspected—flu and dehydration.

He watched the doctor ask Addy questions, watched Addy mumble her responses. The doctor didn’t seem concerned. He was.

After checking the IV bag, the doctor slipped out, and pulled the blue curtain closed behind her, sealing them into a pocket of privacy.

Whatever flu strain she’d caught seemed to rival Ebola. She couldn’t even open her swollen eyelids. He wanted his Addy back. The vibrant, fun, teasing woman he knew he’d never forget.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, her lashes cast stark shadows across her cheeks. “You got me to a hospital even though I told you I didn’t want to go.”

“You fainted, Yarrow.” Closing the distance to the bed, he laid his palm across her clammy forehead. Was she hot? Cold? What could he do to make her feel better?

“Nothing a nap and some tea with honey couldn’t have cured. Just going to take a tiny nap.”

“Go ahead and sleep.” He’d watch over her.

Bright as the sugar-shock of Irish toffee, she’d come and destroyed the safe world he’d built—and now she was sick, and there was nothing he could do but sit in the little cubicle and watch the saline drip into her veins. Because there wasn’t enough space to pace, he settled into the plastic chair in the corner. The tiny seat dug into his back and sides, but he didn’t care. Addison looked very small lying on the narrow cot the doctor had called a trolley, the grotesquely thick IV needle piercing her vein.

Beyond the blue curtain, the ER carried on.

He must have dozed off himself, because it was her voice that woke him. “Oliver? It’ll be another couple hours. You should go home and rest. I’ll make it back fine on my own.”

Her eyes looked huge in her still too-pale face, but the freckles that had stood out like dark splotches against white had softened back into her skin. She almost looked like herself again. He hadn’t realized, until just now, how much he’d needed to see that. “Like hell. We go home together.”

“You need to stop that.” Her voice had regained a part of her usual strength, but it still had a long ways to go.

Reaching her, he felt her forehead for a fever. “Stop what?”

“Frowning. What are you thinking about?”