Terms and Conditions (Dreamland Billionaires #2) by Lauren Asher

Blood heats beneath my skin. I try to shake her off, but her hold only grows more desperate.

“I need you to take me to the hospital.”

I pause, seeing through the cloud of red haze blocking my decision-making. “What?”

Her misty eyes lock onto mine. “I’m in a lot of pain.”

Fuck. I release a ragged breath and shut my eyes. “Harrison will take you.”

“Please don’t make me go alone.” Her plea is my undoing.

My plan to send my father into a coma slips away as I shut my eyes and nod my head. “Fine. Let’s get you to a doctor.”





23





DECLAN





Since Iris is unable to hold a phone herself, I’m tasked with typing everything she dictates. I knew Iris handled a lot, but I didn’t fully realize the depth of her job until she had me working through each task with her.

No wonder she isn’t happy. The number of emails she has to sift through in a given hour would drive anyone insane. Or maybe I’m just going crazy by sitting this close to her. The smell of her coconut soap is permanently ingrained into my memory as she sits flush against me, pointing at different emails with her uninjured hand.

I can tell her nerves grow stronger as we near the hospital. Her knees bounce up and down as she dictates message after message I need to send, altering my entire schedule for the day.

The work doesn’t stop there. After we check in, a nurse hands us a clipboard filled with pages of information that need to be filled out. Iris stares at it like it might catch on fire at any moment.

“Here.” I pass it to her.

Her eyes shift toward the exit. “Will you help me please? I can’t write like this.” Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper.

“Okay. Tell me your answers and I’ll write them down.”

Her throat bobs as she scans the first line. It takes her far longer than necessary to read the first question, so I busy myself with my phone.

“Do you mind reading the questions aloud for me? I’m too stressed to concentrate right now.” Her overcompensating smile irritates me.

“Are you sure? Some of the questions are probably personal.”

Don’t be a dick. Just do what she says.

“I don’t care.” The rigid way she sits in her chair says the complete opposite.

She seems to be one minute away from breaking down, so I concede. I sigh as I grab the pen and get started on the first question. The paperwork doesn’t take us as long as I anticipated, so Iris and I sit together in silence. She stares at the exit longingly. The way her eyes dart around the room as she gnaws on her bottom lip makes me feel merciful enough to save her from the anxiety eating her up inside.

“If it’s any consolation, I hate hospitals too.”

Her head swings toward the direction of my voice. “You do?”

I nod. “Haven’t been to one since I was younger.”

“Why?”

My chest heaves as I consider the potential consequence of admitting my reason. I keep my eyes focused on the soundless television playing in one corner. “We spent a lot of time in hospitals while my mom was sick. I grew to resent everything about them, even long after she passed.”

Her good hand clasps onto mine and gives it a squeeze. I’m grateful she understands me enough not to ask any follow-up questions. The idea of offering another raw part of myself feels like a betrayal to the years I’ve spent carefully developing a certain kind of persona.

“I hate them too.” Her voice cracks.

“Why?”

She stares down at her swollen hand. “My dad…” She pauses, and I give her hand a reassuring squeeze like she gave me. “Let’s just say my mom ended up in the ER a couple times for being clumsy.”

I take a deep breath to stave off the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “And did you have issues with being clumsy?” If she says yes, I swear to God two men will end up floating in the Chicago River tonight.

She shakes her head rather aggressively. “No. No.”

My rapid heart rate can be heard through my ears. “If you were, you can tell me.” While I can’t promise I won’t do anything about it, I can promise to make him hurt. A lot.

The overwhelming sense of protectiveness hits me hard, and I don’t shy away from it. There is nothing I hate more than men who use their fists against innocent women and children.

“It never got to that point. Nana made sure of it.”

“How?”

“She caught onto the signs and interfered before things got bad. Used her savings from my grandpa’s life insurance policy to help Mom get a divorce and start a new life.” A tear slips down her face, and I can’t stand the sight of it.

I brush it away with the pad of my thumb, but the damp trail still lingers. A driving force inside of me wants to erase the sad look on her face. “Did Nana’s plan also happen to include a jug of sulfuric acid?”

She forces out a laugh. “I think concrete shoes were more in style back then.”

I fake shudder. “Remind me to never make Nana angry.”

“Forget Nana. You’d have to deal with me.” She holds up her injured hand like a war trophy.

“I’m absolutely terrified.”

“Mrs. Kane?” a nurse calls out.