Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s on pins and needles—all the time.”
“Yeah…I bet.”
“He says all the right things, but I can tell he’s a nervous wreck inside.”
“Can’t blame him.”
I couldn’t either.
“You still aren’t showing.”
“Oh, I can totally tell. My clothes are getting really snug.”
She smiled. “Good excuse to go clothes shopping.”
“True. Do they have sexy maternity clothes?”
“All maternity clothes are sexy because you’re glowing.”
I took a couple bites. “I don’t feel sexy. Throwing up…feeling bloated…hungry all the time.”
“Well, that last one isn’t new.”
“You got me there.”
Atlas appeared in the glass doors, giving people a wave and a smile, and then he let himself into my office and bypassed my assistant. He was in his blue scrubs, the upper part of his chest visible in the deep cut of the shirt. He looked really good in scrubs. I didn’t have a thing for doctors, but I definitely had a thing for him.
Mom left her chair and gave him a hug. “Nice to see you, honey.”
I smiled because I liked hearing my mom refer to him the same way she referred to us.
“You too, Cleo,” he said. “Are you joining us?”
“No. I just dropped off lunch since I was in the neighborhood.”
“That was nice of you. Thank you.”
Mom turned to me. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you too.” She let herself out, her ass still like a nectarine.
Atlas lowered himself into the armchair, crossed one ankle on the opposite knee, and then turned apprehensive, like he was dreading our appointment and had gone straight back to thinking about it once my mom was gone.
“You want some of my muffin?” I ripped off a piece and chewed.
“I always want your muffin.” His eyes lit up playfully, returning to the man I’d fallen in love with.
“Well, you can’t have that muffin. At least, not while we’re at work.”
“Never stopped us before.”
I rolled my eyes and returned the pastry to the bag. “I’m ready.”
“Did you eat enough? You’ve only eaten half your salad.”
“I already had lunch.”
He grinned and got to his feet. “Should’ve known.”
We walked out of the office together, his arm around my waist, the two of us leaving as a couple. We’d never had that luxury before, and it was a great luxury to have. I missed working with him, but it was nice to be ourselves, to abandon professionalism and just be two people in love.
We sat together in the doctor’s exam room and waited for Dr. Jamil.
Atlas sat still and quiet, but his dark eyes showed his silent hysteria. His energy was so palpable that it did all the talking.
“My father recommended Dr. Jamil. Said he’s one of the best.”
Atlas gave a slight nod and a sigh, one ankle crossed on the opposite knee, his elbow propped on the armrest. He didn’t hold my hand or even look at me. If a heart monitor were hooked up to his finger, it would show it racing at lightning speed.
I tried to get his mind off the situation, and the best way to do that was to talk about work. “Figure out the relationship between the B cells and your patients?”
He kept his eyes straight ahead. “No.”
“Did you figure out if they’re pre-diabetic?”
“Yes.”
This wasn’t working. “As in, they are pre-diabetic—”
“No. Look, I know you’re trying to distract me, but it’s not going to work.”
“I really am curious. Come on, I always ask you questions.”
He gave a loud sigh before he spoke. “The patients aren’t diabetic, whether it’s type one or type two. The high B cells must just be a coincidence.”
“But B cells don’t just elevate for no reason.”
“I agree, but I’ve researched everything and can’t find anything.”
I took a breath and considered the situation, trying to find a viable explanation for this phenomenon. “If the B cells are rising, that means their immune system is being primed to attack. And if they aren’t diabetic, then…” I sat in silence, trying to figure it out. “What if the medication is causing an internal inflammatory problem, so the body is producing these cells to attack the issue…”
He slowly turned to look at me, his dark eyes focused like they were at the office.
“And to counteract that…you prescribe an anti-inflammatory.”
“That sounds like a reach—”
“Did you check to see if there are inflammatory markers in their blood?”
“They don’t have autoimmune diseases, so there’s no reason to check—”
“Check. Just in case. Because if there are and they don’t have a disease, then there’s something going on.”
The door opened, and Dr. Jamil stepped inside.
Atlas immediately forgot our topic of discussion and sat up straight. “Dr. Jamil.” He shook his hand. “Atlas Beaumont.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Dr. Jamil took a seat with my chart in hand. “Just going to do some standard blood work to see what’s going on. An ultrasound. Just a routine check-up.”
Atlas gave a nod, his eyes showing his fear.