Page 21 of Hard Limits

“When you feel ready, take some small sips of water. Do you have medical coverage?”

Her husband answered for her. “We have great insurance.”

“It might not seem necessary, but it’s always a good idea to get checked out after choking. Aspiration pneumonia is a risk—tiny pieces of food that migrate to the lungs—and damage to the airway can lead to swelling. Abdominal thrusts can also cause bruising, and if you have the financial means, scans can rule out any small issues that might become bigger ones if left untreated.” With rising horror, I realised the entire room had fallen silent and everyone was watching us with morbid fascination, including Mr. Vale. “Uh, or so I’ve heard. I’m not a doctor.”

The man bobbed his head. “We’ll do that. We’ll do that right away. Thank you, Miss… I’m not sure I know your name.”

“Meera. Just Meera.”

My patient grasped both of my hands in hers. “Thank you, Meera.”

Could everyone stop freaking staring?

“Glad I could help. Uh, I should go and sit down.”

That damn hand seared my back again. Mr. Vale was just being polite—I’d seen him do the same with Charlotte and Selena and other ladies in the office—but my brain was frazzled enough already this evening without him adding to the problem.

“Stop it,” I hissed under my breath.

“Stop what?”

“Touching me.”

“Oh, uh…” He hadn’t even realised he was doing it, had he? Those gentlemanly, borderline-intimate gestures came so naturally that he was completely oblivious. “I apologise.”

People were applauding now, and my cheeks heated. I just wanted to eat dessert, help Debra to set up the auction items on the stage, and get the hell out of there. But, hey, at least my insanely expensive seven-year college education hadn’t been completely wasted.

Back at the table, I brushed off congratulations and bolted dessert as soon as it was placed in front of me. I’d never enjoyed these kinds of events in the past, mainly because I was always on show (here’s Indali, hasn’t she grown, what a good wife she’ll make for the right man) like a side of meat stuffed into a designer gown. This evening, I was being gawked at for the right reasons, but being the centre of attention still made me cringe.

The moment the plates were cleared, I excused myself.

“Don’t you want coffee?” Mr. Vale asked.

“I promised Debra that I’d carry things. Isn’t that what I’m here to do?”

It was a rhetorical question, and I didn’t give him a chance to answer before I hurried away from the table. If the auctioneer went through his spiel fast enough, I might catch my bus, but it would be close. I loved the beautiful shoes I was wearing, but if I tried to run in them, I’d be joining the lady from the next table in the hospital.

And speaking of impracticality, Mr. Vale bid nearly five thousand dollars for a meal at The Treehouse, a hot new restaurant located in—you’ve guessed it—a tree. Or possibly several trees. The brochure was vague on that and gave no hints as to how diners were meant to climb up there either. Still, it was his problem, not mine. I just needed to get home.

“Do you need me for anything else?” I asked after the hammer came down on the final auction lot—a round of golf at a course I’d never heard of—desperately hoping the answer was no.

“Could you see if that Treehouse thing is transferable?”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why did you bid on it?”

“Because it was the second-to-last item, and I like golf even less than I like heights.”

“I’ll ask.” I checked my watch—the bus left in ten minutes, and the stop was almost half a mile away. Crap. “Or maybe I could email?”

“Is there a problem?”

I almost said “No, everything’s fine,” but if I did that, Mr. Vale would keep on expecting me to work in the evenings, wouldn’t he? And I hated going home late. It wasn’t only the bus ride; the walk from the bus stop to my apartment made me nervous. Most of the streetlights were out, and drug dealers used one corner as an office.

“Actually, there is. My bus leaves soon, and I don’t want to miss it.”

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