Don’t Mind If “I Do” by Everly Ashton

Thirteen

Nick

I’m pretty pleased with myself. Watching Mazzy stomp away in anger feels like a win, and I can’t keep the shit-eating grin from my face as I keep pace behind her. Not because I plan on apologizing but because it will annoy her further.

All right, yeah. I’m like the eight-year-old kid on the playground right now, but I really don’t care. She’s done worse.

But my self-satisfaction disappears when Mazzy pitches violently to the left and falls. She cries out and I rush forward, stopping her at the last second from slamming her head on the cement. My medical training kicks in and I lay her gently on the cold cement, careful with her head. She’s groaning, eyes squeezed shut.

“Mazzy, what happened?” I take her pulse and count it out on my watch. It’s a little elevated but not terrible. She’s not having a heart attack. “Mazzy, talk to me. Open your eyes.”

She does for just a second but it’s enough that I’m able to see she’s not stroking out on me. “I’m fine. Just help me to my car.”

As she says that, a big black man kneels on the other side of her. “What happened?”

I say, “She just pitched to the side and fell.”

“Darius.” Mazzy reaches toward the man, and I can’t help the way my eyes narrow. Who is this man to Mazzy? “Help me to the car.”

“Who the hell are you?” I ask the man.

His eyes narrow on me. “I could ask you the same.”

He’s clearly not impressed with me, but I don’t give a fuck right now. Mazzy’s not going anywhere with this guy until I know who he is. “I’m her fiancé. And you are?”

Darius’s eyes bug out of his head and he glances at Mazzy. “Her, her… what the hell did you say?”

“Darius is my driver. Now let’s leave the dick measuring between you two for another time. Help me to the vehicle.” Her voice is weak and pained, and unlike when I deal with patients at work, it affects me.

“I’m taking you to the ER.” I push my hand under her shoulders to try to help her sit up.

She groans and limps to the side, her iron grip on my chest to steady herself. “I don’t need the ER. I need to go home. I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s go, Maz,” Darius says, trying to help her. I don’t like how he calls her by her nickname.

“She’s not going anywhere but the ER.” These two can try to fight me, but the only place Mazzy is going is to the hospital so we can figure out what’s going on with her.

“I have Meniere’s disease,” Mazzy blurts.

“Oh, shit.” Now what I saw makes sense. Meniere’s affects the inner ear and can cause vertigo out of the blue. “You must have a prescription.”

“I do, but I changed purses. I thought I would be okay to come here and get home before it grew worse”

I frown but know what I have to do. “Then you’re coming home with me.”

“The hell she is. I don’t even know who you are,” Darius says.

“I told you, I’m her fiancé.” The words sound strange. I didn’t think I’d ever be anyone’s fiancé, let alone Mazzy’s.

“She doesn’t have a fiancé.” Distrust glimmers in his dark eyes.

“It’s okay, Darius. He’s a doctor. He can help,” Mazzy says, patting his hand with her eyes closed.

“It’s settled then. Help me get her up.”

Darius does as I ask and Mazzy once again almost falls over once we have her upright.

“Think you can drive us to my place?” I ask Darius.

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

Getting her to the SUV is a slow process, and once she’s tucked inside, I hurry around to the other side to get in the back with her. I wouldn’t have been shocked if Darius had taken off before I could get in, but surprisingly, he waits for me. I give him my address, and in under ten minutes, he’s pulling in my driveway.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say to Darius once the SUV is in park.

“You sure you want me to leave you with this chump?” he asks Mazzy, ignoring me.

I roll my eyes and get out of the vehicle. She must tell him it’s fine because when I open up her door, she lets me help her step down onto my driveway. We shuffle up the driveway together.

“Make sure you take care of her.”

I wave Darius off with my hand that’s not wrapped around Mazzy’s body. “Almost there,” I tell her.

The stairs up onto the front porch are a challenge and I have to yank her into me a few times to make sure she doesn’t fall. She doesn’t need to add a head injury to her problems. I push the code into the keypad on my door while Mazzy moans.

“Oh, God.” Then without warning, she throws up all over me.

I’m not surprised she vomited—lots of people throw up when they have vertigo. I was just hoping to get her to a toilet first. Still, I’m less affected than one might think. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve been thrown up on. But it’s still not pleasant and the scent is enough to make anyone ready to vomit themselves.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

I’m wearing a Henley, so rather than wear it inside, I brace Mazzy’s hands against the side of the house. “Stay like that for a second.”

I strip off my shirt as carefully as I can, trying not to get any vomit in my hair, then I toss it onto the grass on the front lawn. That shirt is going straight to the garbage.

“Okay, let’s get you inside.” I don’t miss how Mazzy’s gaze travels up my chest. I’m happy I hit the gym several times a week and make fitness a priority. Just so she can admire and never touch.

I wrap my arm back around her and lead her into the house, trying to decide where I should take her. Having her in my bedroom feels too intimate, but it’s the only one with an adjoining bathroom, which might save me from having to clean up more vomit. So I lead her up the stairs to my bedroom and help her onto the bed.

“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up again?”

“No, not right now.”

“Okay, give me a few minutes and I’ll be back. Bathroom is right there.” I point at the door that leads to the master bathroom. “I’m going to take care of a few things.”

I go downstairs, call in a prescription for Mazzy, and ask them to rush its delivery. Since I helped the pharmacist’s daughter out once when she came in with a broken arm, she agrees to have it dropped off within an hour. Then I get a glass of water and take it up to her. She manages to swallow a couple of gulps before insisting that’s all she wants.

When I offer Mazzy a change of clothes—one, because some of the vomit splashed on her blouse, and two, because being sick in a pencil skirt and silk blouse doesn’t seem ideal—she agrees but insists I leave the room when she changes. Somehow, she manages to undress and put on my T-shirt and athletic shorts, then get back into bed.

The doorbell rings and it’s the prescription delivery, so I administer a dose to her and she passes out shortly after. I stand over the bed, studying the way her more-strawberry-than-blonde hair is strewn across my pillow, and I push back the niggling feeling in my chest, ignoring it for the warning it is.

The fact is, seeing her fall to the ground affected me a helluva lot more than it should have.