I’m about to follow, to chase her, to throw myself down on my knees and maybe even grovel, but I don’t get that far. My angry little shit of a brother speaks first.
“Damn, she told you,” Jordan says, smirking, amusement in his voice.
Lovely. They’re double-teaming me.
I side-eye the kid and look at Sabrina again.
“Where are you going?” I yell after her.
“Outside to wait on Armstrong,” she says. “Where else?”
“Brina, wait, don’t—” I start.
“Miss Bristol,” she says, sharp as a knife.
“Doghouse!” Jordan quips behind me.
I glower.
Marissa Quail deserves a peace prize.
I sigh. “Miss Bristol, don’t wait outside. It’s cold and a woman was just mugged last night.”
She retraces her steps and stops in front of me again, this time with a finger pointed in my face. “I’m your assistant, remember? You don’t need my ‘help at home.’ Which, by the way, most days you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t order your meals—and I don’t need a damn bodyguard. So don’t worry about where I wait for the driver.”
“Stay near the door,” I warn her, fury lashing through me like a current.
“Magnus Heron, you do not need to worry one iota about what I do unless it’s business-related. Bye.”
As she walks away, I realize she’s still in the messy bun and rumpled sweats from last night. “At least have Armstrong stop at your place so you can change!”
She spins around and daggers me with those sinful brown eyes. “Wrong words. I’m not stupid, and I don’t need you monitoring my wardrobe, too.”
Brina storms out.
It’s just Jordan and me in the sunroom again, sharing a quiet winter hell.
“Wow, you’re a real prick, bro. You shouldn’t have talked to her like that,” he says, wincing as he shakes his head.
I’m momentarily caught off guard by two things: the fact that he just called me “bro,” and that he’s right.
Marissa Quail may be a saint, but that scene with Sabrina wasn’t Jordan’s fault.
It was mine.
“Do whatever you want for breakfast. Can I just go back to sleep?” Jordan asks, yawning into his hand.
“Yeah, sure. Do you want the couch or a guest room?”
“Can I just, like, stay on the couch and fall asleep to the TV?” he asks. “You have Netflix?”
At first, I’m about to tell him no, he needs a bed. Then I remember all the times I fell asleep to cartoons when I was his age.
I lead the way to the living room.
“Tell me—how horrible was I to Brina?” I ask. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Dude. My buddy talked to a cheerleader like that once,” he says.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“She poured a chocolate shake on his head after the game.” He snickers at the memory.
Great. More to look forward to.
Jordan passes out on the couch in under thirty minutes. I head for the kitchen, open the pantry, and then the fridge. Everything is in its place, sleek and untouched.
I rarely eat at home. There’s not much food in the kitchen, mostly snacks in the cupboards, keto butter and heavy cream for coffee, and some eggs.
When I got to the hospital last night, he’d already been there for several hours. I don’t think the kid ate since lunch yesterday. I’ve got to get some food in him today.
I stare at my phone, wishing Brina would call or text. She doesn’t, though, and I can’t blame her one bit.
I’ll have to come up with a real apology.
Flopping down at my home office, I Google “kid food,” “food for teenagers,” and “young adult nutrition.” Hamburgers, hotdogs, nachos, and pizzas pop up.
Yeah, not for breakfast, or when I’m light on antacids.
I’m not young enough for this shit anymore. I try “teenager breakfast food.”
The links show sugary cereals, donuts, pancakes, and French toast.
Ordering food is something I can handle. I pull up a delivery app and order two pancake breakfasts and an orange juice from my favorite cafe while I start brewing my Kona coffee.
When Jordan wakes up, breakfast sits in the brown paper sack on the coffee table, and I’m on the phone with the hospital.
“How can I help you?” the operator asks.
“I need Marissa Quail’s room, please. I think it’s four fifty-three,” I say.
“I’ll transfer you right away, sir.”
Jordan sits up on the couch and stares at me with a clenched jaw.
The phone rings in my ear seven times before the operator picks up again. “How may I help you?”
“I was transferred to room four fifty-three, and it bounced back to you,” I say. “Could I speak to her nurse? I just want to make sure she’s okay. I was hoping she’d be doing better this morning.”
“Do you know the patient’s unit?” the operator asks.
“ICU,” I tell her.
The phone rings in my ear again. I mute the call for a second.
“Jordan, I ordered pancakes if you’re hungry.” I slide the package closer.
He doesn’t answer but his eyes don’t leave me.