Page 11 of Never the Bride
“What happened?” The flight attendant from earlier rushes to our side.
“She has diabetes. I think she’s hypoglycemic. She mentioned an insulin overdose.” I hold up her phone, showing the notification with the low reading.
The flight attendant turns on her heels, scurrying toward the back of the plane. Over the speaker, another stewardess requests medical assistance—probably a good idea since I’m not a professional. My childhood best friend has type 1 diabetes, so I’m familiar with all of this, but it’s definitely been a while. And by a while, I mean I haven’t seen him in ten years.
“She said she had glucose.” I glance at the guy in the row behind us. “Check her suitcase.”
The man leaps up and unzips the front. He moves aside clothes, momentarily holding up a sexy, black negligee—skimpy enough to make both of us blush.
We briefly lock eyes over the lingerie.
My brows drop in disapproval. “Glucose!”
“Right. Sorry.” The man throws the lace nightie down and continues his search. “Okay, I think I have something.” He grabs a plastic pouch containing medications and a red case labeledGlucagon Emergency Kit.
“That’s it.” I open it up and pull out the vile and needle, prepping it.
“Are you a doctor?” the man asks as he watches.
“No, but I’ve seen these used before.”
The flight attendant appears again with a medical bag. “We need to check her blood sugar levels and give her glucose.”
I hold up the glucagon. “Already on it.” I draw in a quick breath and then stick the needle in her stomach, administering the medicine.
We spend the next few minutes watching her closely. The flight attendant places a pulse oximeter on her finger and decides to administer oxygen based on the reading. Camila’s hand finds mine, and for a brief moment, her eyes open. She looks scared.
I meet her gaze as I squeeze her fingers and brush her hair back from her face. “You’re going to be okay. We’re taking good care of you.”
A tear forms at the edge of her eye and holds there until she closes her lids, forcing the tear to slowly roll down her cheek. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in oxygen. I stay there, holding her hand, brushing her hair back, and consoling her any way I can. Eventually, the color starts to return to her face. When the reading shows her oxygen saturation is back to normal, the flight attendant removes the mask. For a second, she opens her eyes again, studies me, brown eyes squinting, and I wonder if she’ll finally recognize who I am.
“What happened?”
“You were hypoglycemic and passed out. I gave you glucagon.”
Her hand squeezes mine again, vulnerability showing.
“You’re fine. We’re just waiting for your strength to return.”
She sucks in a ragged breath and nods. “This never happens,” she mumbles.
“It’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”
“No,” she says with a heavy sigh, “thisneverhappens. Never…never…never.” Her eyelids blink open and shut as she speaks.
“You don’t have to worry about that right now.” My hand lightly touches her shoulder. “Just focus on getting your strength back.”
There’s a furrow on her dark brows, but it takes at least another fifteen seconds until she gets her thought out. “I don’t need help. I take care of myself.”
Her words draw out my smile. “Well, it was either take care of you or let you die.”
“Yes, you should be thanking this man,” the flight attendant scolds, like she’s back to being annoyed with Camila. “He’s the reason we don’t have to make an emergency landing.”
“Are you a doctor?” Camila peeks one brown eye open.
She really has no clue who I am. I don’t know why that continues to shock me.
“No, I’m not a doctor.”
