Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee (Page 45)

Marie leans in, grabs his arm and says, “I really need to get to know you better.”

“Marie,” Jason says with an undertone of warning. “Leave the doctor alone so he can help Shannon.”

“Is it true people come into the ER with live animals up their buttholes?” Marie asks.

Dr. Derjian looks at Marie with the same expression I’ve directed at her hundreds of times over these past eighteen months. I feel you, bro. Bet your mother-in-law is a lot saner than mine.

“Marie,” Jason says again, this time gently taking her elbow and turning her toward the door. “We’ve talked about this. Looked it up on Snopes. It doesn’t happen. Let’s go get some coffee.”

“But you’re already holding a coffee cup in your other hand,” she protests. “Wait!”

Shuffling back into the room and giving Shannon a Mother of the Year sympathy smile designed to look good for an audience, she fishes through her purse and hands the doctor a business card.

At this point, it’s clear to me that he’s decided she’s a garden-variety loon. Which makes him right.

“Please. I run a yoga class and we would love to have a fit, eligible bachelor doctor come and visit.”

“But I’m not—”

“You don’t do yoga? That’s okay. That’s why it’s called a class—you’re a student, there to learn.” She pats him gently on the cheek, moving her hand down to his arm, testing his biceps with little squeezes followed by satisfied little breaths. “I’ll save you a special spot in the front row.”

“Watch out for Agnes,” I warn him. “She pinches.”

“No, I do yoga,” he replies as Marie’s eyes light up like a set of fireworks in the hands of unsupervised twelve year old boys. He shoots me a very confused look. “But I’m not an eligible bachelor.”

“Married?” Marie squeaks, horrified, the light dimming like an imploding dwarf star.

“Engaged,” he says.

I’ll bet his fiancée didn’t swallow her ring.

Amy’s red, bouncing curls make an appearance. “What’s going on? Amanda texted me. Is Shannon all right?” Marie waves her in. The little ER space assigned to Shannon is beginning to feel like a clown car.

Shannon waves her hands like she’s trapped on a desert island and we’re all search planes. She points to her throat, then the doctor.

He opens her throat and peers in with a flashlight. “Oh, wow.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s in there tight, isn’t it?” I say.

“That’s what she said,” Marie mutters under her breath. Andrew looks murderous. Amy kicks her in the ankle. Beat me to it.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something stuffed down your future mother-in-law’s throat to shut her up…those are the rituals, right?

“Marie,” I grunt. She doesn’t look at me, but she bites her lips as Jason drags her out of the room, muttering about that coffee.

“Oh.” The doctor takes another look. “Yes, it is. I was reacting to the size of that rock.” He sizes me up. “Good for you. Makes the ring I proposed with look like a salt crystal.”

Shannon starts to say something but the doctor touches her hand and shakes his head. “You can’t talk at all. Right now, you’re breathing through the ring itself, but any vibration or sudden movement could dislodge it in the worst way possible. You need to stay calm and focused. We’re getting equipment right now that will help us to extract the ring.”

Equipment? Extract? Panic blooms in Shannon’s eyes. My own throat spasms in sympathy. He spends the next minute peering into her throat with the flashlight, hands steady.

“What have we here?” says a clipped women’s voice, her British accent as condescending as it was eighteen months ago.

You have got to be kidding me.

Evaluative eyes take in the scene, with Amanda, Amy, me and Shannon all a familiar set of characters to her. “Dr. Porter.” She frowns at Shannon, then looks at me. “You two? I remember you.” She points to Shannon. “Bee sting.” Then to me. “EpiPen to the groin.” She pauses, the incredulity rising in her voice like a tidal wave. “Again? Did she actually touch your penis this time, or was it a false alarm?”

Andrew gives me one of those looks that means I’ll never hear the end of this. Ever.

Marie and Jason walk back in as the doctor asks us, “What is it with you two? Do you have some sort of dating fetish that involves coming to the ER?” The words feel harsher in that British accent of hers, and women with grey hair and glasses always have the upper hand when it comes to judgmental comments. If my mother were still alive, I wonder what she would think of this mess.

If Mom were alive, her ring wouldn’t be caught in Shannon’s throat right now.

“Is that a real thing? An ER fetish?” Marie asks, breathless with possibility. “I’m kind of an expert on fetishes.”

Dr. Porter gives her a withering look and turns to Shannon. “Your mother, right?”

Shannon nods.

“The fetish thing makes more sense.” Dr. Porter’s eyebrows are doing a judgmental dance but she stops talking to us and reads the chart.

“Seriously? I’d love to know. I work in the sex industry.” Marie announces this with a series of nods designed, I think, to convey her professional status as…a what?

Jason begins sputtering. “You do not work in the sex industry, Marie! Why on earth would you say such a thing?”