Shopping for a Billionaire's Fiancee (Page 49)

“You heard me. I have no idea how to do this family thing.”

“No, no,” she rasps. “I heard you. I understand. I just can’t believe you turned the word ‘family’ into a verb.”

I stare at her. That’s what she got out of what I said? That I broke a grammar rule?

“I don’t know if I can be with a man who turns nouns into verbs. I just can’t even!” She starts to laugh, then gags a little. I pour her a cup of water and add some crushed ice, then sit on the bed next to her, urging her to drink. The cold water should reduce the swelling.

She sips slowly through the straw, then says, “I am the worst person for you to pick as your wife.”

“Stop talking! And I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You can withdraw your offer.”

“My offer? This isn’t a merger, Shannon. It’s a proposal. Or, at least, it will be once we get the ring back. For marriage. And love.” I frown. “Unless you want me to withdraw…”

The world as I know it becomes a frozen void. Time is meaningless. Space is optional. Molecules don’t have purpose.

She shakes her head no, and life resumes. “Don’t withdraw. But don’t be so mean.”

I sit down and hold her hands, capturing her eyes. “I love you, Shannon. More than I think even I realize. And when people—even your parents—make you suffer, it makes me crazy. They push your bounds and my buttons and I’m not putting up with it. I’m just not. You have to understand that.” We’re in dangerous territory now.

“And,” she rasps, pausing to take a sip, “you’re the kind of man who needs a woman who doesn’t flush her phone or swallow heirlooms.” Sip. “Or nearly die from a bee sting.”

“That was entirely my fault.”

“You can’t claim responsibility for all of those. But I’ll blame you for the spiked tiramisu.”

I close my eyes and groan, squeezing her hand.

“I mean, really.” Sip. “Who’s stupid enough to have a symbol of your undying love tucked away in a piece of food that is the female equivalent of—” She starts coughing and can’t stop, the rest of her sentence lost to the ravages of metal and diamond making its way through her organs.

A guy in scrubs appears at the door. “Shannon Jacoby? I’m here to take you to X-ray.”

For the next hour I sit in an uncomfortable chair and text with Grace nonstop, trying to figure out where this all went wrong. At some point I nod off.

When I wake up with a neck cramp and a phone out of battery Shannon’s back, dozing in the bed, propped up.

“Dec?” she whispers. I jump up, disoriented. I fell asleep? I don’t take naps unless I’m naked and Shannon’s with me, and those naps don’t involve any actual sleep. Unreal.

“You need something?” I ask.

“I just need to know—” She coughs, the sound a weird rattle in her bones.

Dr. Derjian walks in, frowning. Our discussion has to be tabled, and Shannon’s eyes are troubled. I imagine mine don’t look too happy, either. He grabs his stethoscope and holds it up to her chest, listening intently as her coughs recede.

“We got the X-rays,” he declares, unsheathing them from a large manila envelope. He holds one up to the fluorescent light. Shannon and I look up, as if we’re stargazing.

The ring is an obvious object, right smack in the middle of her chest, embedded under her ribs.

“Ouch,” she says.

“Ouch,” Dr. Derjian and I agree.

“Do I need surgery?” she asks. Her face is hopeful. She really would rather have her chest sawed open than the alternative.

The doctor points to the stack of French fry trays he and Dr. Porter gave her earlier. “Not yet. Those should be the best medical tools, in the end.”

My inner twelve year old wants to snicker. He said In the end.

Shannon gives me a sharp look, as if she read my mind. “So I just have to wait it out?”

He nods. “Prune juice, apricot nectar, lots of high-fiber foods. Leafy greens. Felicia has a list of suggested foods.”

Mom’s ring stares at us, a white object in stark relief against Shannon’s inner workings.

“It won’t rip her as it goes through?” I ask.

Steady, dark brown eyes meet mine. He’s sharp and calm. “It shouldn’t, but any sharp abdominal pain needs to be met with an immediate trip to the ER.”

“Do you know Dr. Porter’s schedule?” Shannon asks.

He cocks one eyebrow. “Any attending physician will be very competent in treating you.”

She waves her hand. “No. I want to know when she’s working so I can avoid her. If I want to be judged with snooty haughtiness I’ll go find my ex’s mom and ask her opinion on my fashion choices.”

“Stop talking,” Dr. Derjian and I say together.

He gives me a look and I ask, “They can’t help themselves, can they? Your fiancée’s a talker?’

A flash of three or four different emotions pass through his face before he replies, “You could say that.”

The look we give each other seems to say, I share your pain, bro.

He finishes some notes on Shannon’s chart and looks up at her. “The discharge nurse will be in shortly with instructions.”

“That’s it?” I ask, adrenaline seeping out of my pores, exhaustion filling me.

“For now.” He pats Shannon’s knee. “Just come in for any pains you encounter.”

She points to me. “Does that include him?” Dr. Derjian laughs and leaves the room.