Page 55 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

“You’re going to be okay, baby. I’m going to make sure of it.”

The emergency room doors slide open with a hiss as Charlie half-carries me through them. My lungs feel like they're wrapped in barbed wire, each breath a negotiation between determination and pain.

The fluorescent lights above us pulse as Charlie's voice cuts through the antiseptic air, demanding help in a commanding voice. I want to tell him I'm okay, but the lie won't form on my swollen tongue.

"She's having a severe allergic reaction," Charlie announces to the triage nurse, his arm tight around my waist. "Cashews. She used her EpiPen about ten minutes ago, but she's still struggling to breathe."

The nurse glances up from her computer, her gaze sliding over me with clinical detachment. She hands Charlie a clipboard with a forms attached. "Take a seat and fill out these forms."

Charlie's body tenses against mine. "Did you not hear me? She can't breathe. This is anaphylaxis."

"Sir, everyone here is experiencing an emergency." The nurse gestures to the half-full waiting room. "We'll get to her as soon as possible."

My vision darkens at the edges. The pressure in my chest intensifies, like someone's stacking bricks on my sternum. I clutch at Charlie's arm, fingers digging into his sleeve as panic rises.

Charlie's voice drops to a dangerous octave. "Her throat is closing. If you don't get a doctor right now, I'll call every news outlet in Washington to report how Spokane General let a woman die in their waiting room because filling out paperwork was more important than saving her life."

The threat—delivered with the calm certainty of a man who controls a business empire—lands with precision. The nurse's eyes widen slightly before she picks up a phone.

Seconds later, medical personnel surround me. They ease me onto a gurney, and something cold pushes into my arm—an IV line. Oxygen flows through a mask placed over my face, cool and metallic-tasting. A monitor beeps somewhere to my left, measuring the frantic rhythm of my heart.

"BP's dropping," someone says. "Let's get another dose of epinephrine on board."

Charlie hovers at the edge of this choreographed emergency, his face pale and drawn. When they ask him to step out, he refuses in such a tone that no one challenges him again.

Another injection burns through my veins. Gradually, mercifully, my airways begin to expand. The vice grip around my chest loosens one notch, then another. I drag in a deeper breath, then another, each one less painful than the last.

"Much better," a doctor says, checking the monitors. "We'll keep you for observation. Anaphylaxis can have a biphasic response—symptoms can return even after the initial reaction appears to resolve."

Charlie's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "I'm staying right here."

No one argues.

They move me to a curtained bay in the emergency department. The urgency that marked my arrival ebbs away, replaced by the routine indifference of a busy ER. Nurses check my vitals with decreasing frequency. The doctor stops by once more, notes something in my chart, and disappears.

"You scared the hell out of me," Charlie says quietly when we're alone again. He sits beside my bed, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

"Sorry," I manage, my voice rasping through a still-tender throat. "Not exactly the kind of morning I was looking forward to."

He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "I was terrified, Tess."

The raw emotion in his voice catches me off guard. Something shifts between us in that moment—something deeper than the connection we’ve already established the last few weeks.

"I still can’t believe the waitress told me there were no cashews in that granola," I whisper.

"I'm going to find out exactly what happened," he promises, a dangerous edge to his voice. "And make sure it never happens again."

Hours pass in the strange timelessness of hospital care. My breathing improves, but the staff seems in no hurry to discharge me. Charlie steps out occasionally to go to the bathroom or get more coffee. He returns each time, settling back into the uncomfortable chair beside my bed as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Eventually, a different doctor appears with discharge instructions. "You're fortunate," he says, reviewing my chart. "The reaction could have been much worse without the quick EpiPen administration. Always carry two auto-injectors from now on, and follow up with your allergist in Seattle."

"Is it safe for us to drive back today?" Charlie asks. "It's a four-hour trip."

The doctor hesitates. "I'd prefer she stay local tonight, but if you're determined to go, watch for any signs of returning symptoms—difficulty breathing, hives, swelling. If anything concerns you, don't wait. Find the nearest emergency room immediately."

Charlie's hand tightens around mine. "I'll make sure of it."

We stop by the hotel briefly and Charlie grabs our things. He also stops into the restaurant to tell them what happened. Apparently, the waitress was new and didn’t actually ask the kitchen about the ingredients in the granola. Charlie’s reaction to that was fierce, to say the least.

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