Page 58 of Trust Me

Kyle lets out a low growl. “Sons of bitches. I told them to call me … hang on.”

He gets up and walks out of the room.

Leaning back against my pillows, I take in deep breaths. My mind is swirling as I try to remember the events of the past few hours. Unfortunately, the pain still raging in my head and sleepiness make it difficult. All I can focus on is Kyle’s voice telling me everything’s going to be okay, and to lean on him for strength.

That’s when the memory of him finding me in my office, helping me out of the building, and getting me back home, come back. I even vaguely recall the voice of the nurse practitioner. I believe I had signed some sort of consent form for her to give me the IV.

The pain is still present but the throbbing and nausea have decreased significantly.

“Here we are,” Kyle says as he enters the room, holding a tray of food.

I struggle to sit up higher in bed.

“No,” Kyle commands in that low but insistent voice of his. “Don’t move too much.” He sets the tray directly over my lap.

“What’s this?” I look down, trying to make sense of the multiple plates and bowls of food that cover the tray.

“For one,” he holds up a prescription bag, “your newly filled prescription.”

I blink. “How did you get a new prescription so quickly?” I usually have to wait at least a day or so before my prescription is filled. And I hadn’t even had a chance to contact my physician.

Kyle simply blinks at me. Then I remember.

Right. His family likely has an entire staff of healthcare professionals on call around the clock.

“But it’s not as effective if it’s not taken within the first thirty minutes of the signs of a migraine,” he continues, placing the medicine on my nightstand. “It’s well after six o’clock and you haven’t eaten since this morning. Plus …” He doesn’t continue.

“Plus, what?” But before he can answer, I remember. “Oh my god,” I groan as I recall throwing up all over the underground garage. “That’s so humiliating.” I cover my face in shame.

Kyle takes a firm grip of my wrist, pulling my hand away from my face. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.” He looks me directly in the eyes as he says this. As he continues to hold onto my wrist, his thumb starts to make little circles, stroking the vein there.

The air in the room shifts and the pain in my skull, while still active, subsides a bit more. Out of nowhere, my stomach growls.

“Shit.” Kyle lets go of my hand and adjusts the tray of food. He lifts the lid off of one of the bowls. “Tomato soup.” Then he moves to lift the lid covering one of the plates. “And grilled cheese.”

A smile I can’t suppress covers my face.

“This delicacy is one of my grandmother’s favorites,” he explains. “She would always make a grilled cheese and can of tomato soup whenever we stayed over with them for the night. Or if she heard one of us had a bad day.”

A half smile touches his lips, and in this moment, the hard ass, career-driven, workaholic heir diminishes. His face takes on an almost boyish look.

“That’s sounds so sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “She’s good like that.” He sits again and peers up at me. “Unless you don’t like grilled cheese. I also read that sometimes dairy can cause or even make migraines worse. So …” he lifts the lid of the other bowl, “I also got you chicken noodle soup and crackers.”

“Both? For me?” I assumed that one meal was for me and the other was for him.

He nods. “You have to eat. The IV fluids will help but I always think real food is better over that other shit.”

He rises and hovers over the bed. For a moment, I wonder what he would do if I decided not to eat.

I grin.

“What?” A wrinkle appears in between his brows.

“I’m just picturing you prying my mouth open and shoveling this soup down my throat.” I laugh, but then quickly regret it when my head throbs. Groaning, I lay my head against the headboard.

“Dammit, Riley,” he whispers.

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