Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Now, I may not live to mend my ways.
“Got it!” Cameron miraculously finds the EpiPen cannister tangled inside my nest of reusable grocery bags and pops the top.
A beat later, he has the needle out of the case. I barely have time to brace myself before he’s hauled me onto his lap on the floor and jabbed the needle into my thigh through my black uniform pants.
I wheeze-gasp-squeal but more from the suddenness of the entire thing than the pain. I’m so amped up on fear and adrenaline that I barely notice the sting of the needle. And then the epinephrine floods my bloodstream and all I can feel is my heart hammering at my ribs as my arms and legs begin to shake and my palms sweat like it’s their purpose in life to make enough moisture to water every plant in the downstairs lobby.
“It’s going to be okay,” Cameron says, rubbing his palm in gentle circles on my back, reminding me of the night we met. He really is incredible in a crisis. If the shoe were on the other foot, I probably would have passed out from panic before I even found the injection, let alone been able to jab it into his leg. “You’ve got this. Just take slow, deep breaths. The swelling’s already going down in your face. You’re going to be okay.”
I am going to be okay.
But only because of him.
“Th-thank you,” I stammer a few seconds later, as my tongue shrinks closer to its normal size. “If you weren’t here…” I gulp, trying and failing to get my trembling arms under control. “I would have died.”
“No, if I weren’t here, you never would have gotten sick in the first place,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Was it nuts? Is that what you’re allergic to?”
I nod. “Yeah. Tree nuts. Peanuts and cashews are f-fine, though.”
He winces. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I should have thought. I should have asked before I—”
“No, you couldn’t have known,” I cut in. “I should have asked. I know better than to eat something without asking what’s in it first. I was just s-seduced by the beauty of your W-Wellington.”
His expression softens as he sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I was going for. But without the brush with death. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” I say, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that I’m sitting on his lap, cradled in his strong arms, and how damned good it feels. I should get up, put some professional distance between us, but he just feels so…safe. “Should I call 911 again and tell them I’m okay?” The words are barely out of my mouth when there’s a hard knock at the locked front door and a deep feminine voice calls out, “Emergency services! We received a call from this address.”
Cam shifts me from his lap to the floor and bounces to his feet, shouting, “Coming! Just a second.” He glances back to me. “I’ll be right back. I want them to check you out, just to be safe.”
He jogs from the room and down the stairs while I gather the embarrassing mess on the floor back into my purse. I’ve just finished and plopped my bag on the desk and myself in the chair when the EMTs step through the office door.
Cam lingers in the corner while my vitals are checked, until the rest of the staff begins to arrive, their worried voices rising from the dining room below.
“They’ve obviously seen the ambulance outside,” he says, moving toward the stairs. “I’ll explain what happened, get them started on lunch station prep, then come check in with you for next steps, okay? I can run training today if you don’t feel up to it. After yesterday, I have a good idea what kind of changes you’re looking to implement.”
“It’s okay,” I say as the woman kneeling by my chair wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “I’ll be good to go. Just give me fifteen minutes.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I don’t mind—”
“I’m sure,” I cut in, sweat breaking out along my spine, though I’m not sure if that’s from the injection or the embarrassment that’s taking hold now that the worst of the reaction has passed.
I’m supposed to be this man’s boss, someone he can trust to steer the ship of the restaurant he clearly cares so much about. But so far, all I’ve done is prove that I’m a wimp with a weak stomach and a bag full of chaos who can barely take care of herself, let alone a Michelin-star-rated establishment in one of the food capitals of the world.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” I repeat in a firm, but kind voice, forcing a smile. “But thank you for the offer. And for the help.”