She
wilted into him, pressing her clammy brow into the hollow of his throat. “That’s not fair. I’m sorry. I feel awful and it makes me bitchy.”
She’s sick as a dog and vulnerable. Everybody says stuff they don’t mean when they feel lousy.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that this was temporary. If he could woo Vanessa into joining the staff, he’d be able to cut back and spend more time on that life Piper made him want. But the deal wasn’t done yet, and Myles wasn’t in the habit of making promises he didn’t know he could keep. Words meant nothing unless backed up with action. He knew that better than most. So instead of dubious promises, he tightened his arms. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about so many things right now.”
Piper stirred, making a noise of question.
He held her in place. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’ll rearrange things so I can stay home with you while you’re dealing with all this. You shouldn’t be alone when you’re this sick.” God knew what he’d have to give up to pull it off, but she was worth it.
~*~
“Should you actually be here?” Miranda gave Piper a critical once over.
“I look worse than I feel.” It was the truth. Mostly. She’d been able to keep some oatmeal down, and as she’d made it out the door before Myles started the coffee, nothing else had set her precarious stomach off.
“You look about two steps up from warmed-over death,” Shelby observed.
Piper made a face. “Thanks. You looked awesome, too, after you had the flu last year.”
“Just don’t give it to any of us,” Miranda said.
“Myles has been home taking care of me for days and didn’t catch it. You should be fine.” Which had been both wonderful and irritating. She was a crap patient, and she knew it. For all that she was great taking care of others, she didn’t tolerate it well herself, and Myles seemed to be on some kind of crusade to prove something by playing mother hen. Still, it had been great to spend some actual time with him, even if it had taken dire illness to drag him away from his beloved paper.
And now she was glad to get back to work. Resolute, Piper picked up the first patient chart of the day and went to call Mr. Clemmons back. The moment she opened the waiting room door, the scent of cigar smoke assailed her, making her stomach lurch.
No. Absolutely not. I am not throwing up again.
Eyes scanning the room for the asshole ignoring the non-smoking rule, she swallowed back the nausea. No one was smoking. And other than Mr. Clemmons, the only other people in the waiting room were a mom with two sniffling children and an elderly woman. None of them were likely cigar smokers.
What the hell?
When she was certain she could speak without anything but words coming out, Piper fixed a friendly smile on her face. “Mr. Clemmons, come on back and let me get your vitals.”
She took him into triage, grateful to be back to routine. Temperature. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. Nature of complaint. That done, she placed him in room one and wandered back out to the office area.
“Does anybody else smell smoke?”
“I swear to God, the burnt popcorn smell is gone,” Shelby protested. “It’s been days.”
“No, not that. I smell cigar smoke. But Mr. Clemmons doesn’t smoke, and I kind of doubt any of the others in the waiting room are lighting up stogies.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Randolph Driscoll was in yesterday,” Miranda said. “You know he chain smokes cigars.”
“Maybe somebody should check the plants in the waiting room to see if he happened to use one for an ash tray.”
“I don’t smell anything,” said Shelby.
Piper stepped up behind her at the counter that opened out front. The smell all but knocked her back two steps. “Seriously? You don’t smell that?” Her gorge rose, and she covered her mouth, stepping back.
“Oh, no. I know that face.” Shelby rolled back in her chair and picked up the disinfectant spray, brandishing it like a weapon. “Back away.”
“Piper, join me in three for a minute.” Miranda waited until she followed all the way to the room in the back.
When she shut the door behind them, Piper began to worry. “Am I in trouble?”