Page 64 of IOU

“Sure, and I’m a supermodel,” I agree, lifting my hand and placing it on his forehead. “You’re not running a fever. What’s wrong?” This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. “Should I call an ambulance?”

He grunts out a firm, “No.”

I should have known. “Tell me how to help you,” I plead. I’m scared he might die right in front of me.

He shifts and casts me a worried look.

I glare. “Now is not the time to worry about your fucking image! I won’t say anything, I swear. Please let me help you.”

Maverick’s eyes close, and I put my hand in his. I’m just about to shake him when he says, “Breathe with me.”

“What?”

His face pinches. “I need to hold my breath, but I need you to count the beats, so I know when to stop.”

He places his hand on his chest.

“Is it your heart?” I ask, more afraid than I was thirty seconds ago when I thought he had a cold or something.

“Please stop asking questions.” He groans.

“Fine,” I agree, willing to do anything at this point to help. “Do you need me to just breathe normally? You don’t want me to do the pregnant-labor-y type breathing?”

For just a moment, he tries to be the Maverick I know. “Do you know how to do ‘labor-y’ breathing?”

“Well, no, but I could look it up if that’s what you need.”

The internet has everything.

His slow head shake is pitiful. “No. It isn’t what I need, but I appreciate your willingness to do what it takes.” It’s not a thank you for helping or talking or getting in his way, but it is an acknowledgment. He appreciates me and loathes asking for my help.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, not for his sake but for mine. I need one relaxing breath before I start. “Ready?” I ask him.

I don’t wait for his nod. I’m already pulling in a breath and exhaling, hoping I’m doing it at the pace I normally would and not faster since I’m nervous.

Maverick watches me for a few seconds, and then I see his chest rising with mine, but it’s too fast. He can’t pace his breathing with mine.

“I need to hold my breath,” he grates out. “Count for me?”

I nod hesitantly. “Maybe we should go to the hospital instead?”

“No.”

Okay, so he’s going to die on the floor. Check.

“What do I need to count to?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly. “Ten.”

I can do that.

I start counting and watch in horror as Mav holds his breath, clenching his fist as if he’s bearing down. Finally, he lets go and exhales a burst of air. “I can’t get it to convert.”

For the first time since knowing Maverick, he looks afraid.

“I don’t know what you mean about converting,” I add, “but I think we need to call for help, Mav.”

“Don’t call me that,” he barks between short pants.

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