After Connor had gone, Deacon filled Remy’s water bowl and measured out his dinner.
The dog was happily chowing down when Deacon’s cell phone chimed with a text message.
He glanced at the screen.
Any chance you can keep Remy another day or two?
He immediately replied to Sierra’s request:
Of course. What’s up?
I think I’ve got a touch of the flu.
He knew it was making the rounds. In the past week alone, the trial coordinator, a court reporter and two judges had been out with it. While each had apparently bounced back from the bug within a couple of days, none of them was (as far as he knew) pregnant. And he couldn’t help but worry that Sierra was on her own and obviously feeling unwell.
What do you need? Ginger ale? Chicken soup?
Just to stay in bed and not have to worry about the dog.
Then that’s what you should do. Remy and I were planning a Marvel movie marathon tonight, anyway.
She responded to that with a smiley face.
Seriously, how long have you been sick?
It started in the middle of the night Friday.
Fever? Nausea? Vomiting?
Yes.
Have you eaten anything?
I’m not hungry.
While he didn’t get sick often, Deacon had some experience with the flu, so he could understand that food wasn’t appealing when battling nausea. Rest, which Sierra seemed to be getting, was crucial, and so was staying hydrated.
Was she drinking plenty of fluids?
Instead of sending another text message to ask that question, he called to the dog.
“Come on, Remy.”
The Chihuahua lifted his head but, obviously tuckered out after chasing the ball Connor had kept tossing for him, made no move to get off his pillow.
“We’re going to see Sierra.”
Remy responded to her name with a happy yip and scrambled to his feet.
At any other time, Deacon would have walked over to her house. But he wanted to make a couple of stops first, so he put Remy’s harness on him and buckled him into the passenger seat of his truck. Half an hour later, he texted from her driveway to let Sierra know he was using his key to let himself in.
She didn’t reply to the message.
Once inside, he unclipped the dog’s leash. Remy immediately went searching for Sierra—checking the living room, then the dining room and kitchen before making his way to the stairs. He sat there at the bottom and looked at Deacon expectantly, obviously waiting for him to carry him up to the bedroom, as Sierra always did.
Deacon hadn’t considered that she might be in bed. Yeah, she’d said she wanted to sleep, but he’d assumed she’d be flaked out on the sofa in the living room with the TV on—as he tended to do when he wasn’t feeling well.
Walking into her house with a key that she’d given him was one thing, venturing into her bedroom was another. But he set the bags he carried on the counter in the kitchen, then picked up the dog and made his way up the stairs.
“Sierra? Are you up here?”
She didn’t respond, so he followed the sound of a television down the hall, pausing in the doorway of a room dimly lit by the screen. She was huddled under a mountain of blankets, and he tapped his knuckles on the open door before crossing the threshold.
“Sierra?” he said again.
“Mmm.”
He approached cautiously, noting the half-full glass of water on her bedside table and bottle of Tylenol beside it.
The covers were tucked right up under her chin, and her hair was tangled around her face. He gently brushed the hair aside and touched the back of his hand to her forehead.
He wasn’t really sure what he was checking for, but his mom had always done the same thing when he said he wasn’t feeling well. If Sierra had been a little warm, he probably wouldn’t have known it, but her skin was noticeably hot and clammy.
Her eyelashes fluttered, then parted.
“Deacon? What are you doing here?”
“I brought you soup,” he said.
“Oh.” She tried to smile, but the effort wasn’t very successful. “That was sweet, but I’m really not hungry.”
“You need to eat something.”
Her eyes drifted shut again.
“When do you last take Tylenol?”
“Five o’clock.”
The display on the clock on her bedside table read 6:10 p.m., so just over an hour ago.
He found a facecloth in the linen tower in the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom, moistened it with cold water and returned to the bedroom to lay it across her forehead.
“Mmm...that feels good.”
“I’ve imagined you saying those exact words when I had you in bed, but not under these circumstances.”
She managed a weak smile.
“Do you want to come downstairs to eat or do you want me to bring the soup up to you?”
“I’m really not hungry.”
“Not eating wasn’t one of the options.”
She exhaled a weary sigh. “You can bring it up, please.”
He couldn’t find a serving tray, so he improvised, arranging the bowl of soup, napkin, spoon, a sleeve of saltine crackers and a glass of ginger ale on a baking sheet.
By the time he returned to her bedroom with the food, she’d managed to sit up in bed, the pillows propped up behind her back.
“I should have gone downstairs so you didn’t have to come back into my germ-filled room,” she protested weakly. “Now you’re going to get sick.”
“Doubtful. But if I do, you can return the favor and play nurse to me. Short skirt optional.”
“Pretend I’m rolling my eyes at you,” she said. “Because I’m too tired to actually exert the effort.”
“Rolling eyes noted,” he assured her.
She nibbled on a couple of crackers and managed half a dozen spoonfuls of soup before she decided that she was done.
He took the baking sheet/tray from her and set it on the dresser, leaving her with the glass of ginger ale.
“What are you doing?” she asked, when he began opening and closing drawers.
“Looking for some clothes for you.”
“I don’t need to get dressed—I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re going to the hospital.”
“It’s the flu, Deacon. If everyone who got the flu ran to the hospital, it would be overflowing with sick people.”
“If you don’t think you need to see a doctor—”
“I don’t,” she interjected.
“—then think about the baby.”
Her hand immediately went to the barely noticeable curve of her belly and her brow furrowed.
“Okay,” she finally relented. “I’ll go to the hospital.”
He pulled out a sweater he was sure he’d seen her wear before and a pair of stretchy leggings, holding them up for her perusal. “Do these work?”
“Sure.”
He deposited them on the foot of the bed.
“I’m going to need more than that,” she told him. “I’m not in the habit of leaving the house commando.”
Right. She needed underwear.
“Top drawer of the other dresser,” she told him.
He pulled open the drawer and found himself staring at a colorful selection of bras and panties. He gritted his teeth and plunged a hand into the sea of lace and silk, grabbing the first items he touched and tossing them onto the bed with the other garments.
“Ordinarily I’d protest that those don’t match, but right now I don’t really care,” she admitted.
“The doctor won’t care, either,” he told her, shoving the drawer closed.
And right now, he was trying really hard not to picture his (pregnant and sick) friend in sexy underwear—a not entirely successful effort.
“Do you need a hand getting dressed?”
He held his breath, torn between wanting her to say yes and hoping she’d say no.
“I think I can manage.”
“How about undressed? I’m pretty good at that part.”
“I have no doubt, but no, thank you.”
He took it as a good sign that she’d been able to respond to his teasing and carried the remains of her meal downstairs so that she would have some privacy to dress.
When they got to the hospital, he pulled into a drop-off zone and left his hazards flashing while he ran inside to get a wheelchair, then he wheeled Sierra into the ER before going to park his vehicle. By the time he got back, she’d checked in at the desk and was in triage.
“What brings you in today?” the nurse asked in a bored voice.
“I think I have the flu.”
“You and a lot of other people,” the nurse responded.
“How many of those other people are pregnant?” Deacon asked.
That question seemed to generate at least a modicum of concern from the health-care worker. “How far along?”
“Eighteen weeks,” the expectant mother said.
The nurse input that information. “Your doctor’s name?”
“Camila Amaro.”
“Lucky for you, she’s on call tonight.”
“I’d feel a lot luckier if I hadn’t got the flu,” Sierra joked weakly.
A few minutes later, they were ushered into an exam room by a nurse who checked the patient’s vitals, drew some blood and sent her into the bathroom with a specimen cup. And a few more minutes after that, when she’d transferred from the wheelchair to the bed, the doctor came in.
“Couldn’t wait until your next appointment to see me?” the white-coated specialist teased.
“I was willing to wait,” Sierra told her. “Deacon didn’t give me a choice.”
The doctor shifted her gaze to him. “You’re Deacon?”
He nodded.
“Friend or family?”
“Friend.”
“I’m Camila Amaro,” she said, introducing herself before turning her attention to the chart on which the nurse had recorded Sierra’s vitals.
“We’re going to get you hooked up to an IV, and then we’ll take you down to perform a quick scan to check on the baby, okay?” Dr. Amaro said, speaking to Sierra now.
“Okay,” she agreed.
“I don’t think there’s any reason to be concerned about the little guy, but an ultrasound will let us be sure.”
The doctor had barely finished speaking when the nurse returned with the IV drip. Dr. Amaro went ahead to get set up for the ultrasound and told Sierra an orderly would be there in a few minutes to transport her to diagnostic imaging.
“They run an efficient operation here,” Deacon noted.
“We do our best,” the nurse told him. Then to Sierra she said, “Your friend can go with you to your ultrasound, if you want.”
Sierra looked at Deacon. “What do you think?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I want you to come...unless this is weird for you.”
It definitely felt weird, but his discomfort was greatly outweighed by his desire to be there for her.
“Then I’ll go with you,” he said.
So he followed along as the orderly steered the bed through the halls and into an elevator, delivering her promptly to the diagnostic imaging department where Dr. Amaro was waiting.
Sierra didn’t have to change into a gown. Instead, she was instructed to push her leggings down to her hips and lift her sweater. The doctor then squirted gel on her belly and used some kind of wand to spread it around. As she did, an image appeared on the computer screen.
Sierra smiled. “There he is.”
“He?” Deacon echoed.
She nodded. “It’s a boy.”
He squinted at the screen. “How can you tell?”
She managed a soft chuckle. “I can’t tell, but Dr. Amaro identified all the relevant parts during my last scan.”
“It’s a boy,” the doctor confirmed.
Deacon remembered seeing an ultrasound picture of Piper and Poppy at about eight weeks, which had looked like nothing more to him than a couple of whitish blobs on a dark background. At eighteen weeks, Sierra’s baby actually looked like a baby. And it was fascinating to him to not only see the baby moving but also hear the rhythmic beat of his heart.
“Heart rate is 144 beats per minute,” Dr. Amaro said.
“That seems fast,” Deacon said, and immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“For you or I it would be,” the doctor agreed, obviously unconcerned. “For an eighteen-week fetus, it’s right in the middle of the normal range.”
“That’s good then, right?” Sierra asked.
“Very good,” Dr. Amaro said. “More good news—your placenta is healthy and right where it should be, and your amniotic fluid level is good.”
Sierra exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
“All in all, the baby’s doing just fine.”
Sierra looked at Deacon. “I told you I didn’t need to come to the hospital,” she said, sounding tired and just a little bit smug.
“The baby’s doing just fine,” Dr. Amaro said again. “But your heart rate is a little high and your blood pressure is a little low, both signs of dehydration.”
“Which is why I’ve got the IV, right?”
“Yes, but it’s not an instant fix, so I’m going to keep you here overnight for observation.”
“But—”
A pointed look from the doctor had Sierra cutting off her own protest.
“Instead of enumerating all the reasons you don’t want to spend the night in the hospital—because none of those reasons is as important as your well-being and that of the baby—why don’t you thank your friend for bringing you in?”
It wasn’t really a request but a directive.
“Thank you, Deacon,” Sierra dutifully intoned.
“You’re welcome,” he said, lest he be chastised by the doctor for not following her script.
“You can wait here while I finish the paperwork to get you admitted to a room,” Dr. Amaro told her patient.
“Thank you,” Sierra said again.
“Do you need me to bring anything back for you?” Deacon asked. “Pajamas? Toothbrush? An actual book because you don’t like to read on a Kindle?”
“I’ll be fine,” she told him. Then to the doctor she said, “It’s just one night, right?”
“At this point, I’m optimistic about your chances of going home in the morning, but I’m not making any promises.”
“If Sierra can go home tomorrow, what time should I be here to pick her up?” Deacon asked the doctor.
“You can’t pick me up,” Sierra protested. “You have a trial starting tomorrow.”
“Jury selection is tomorrow,” he said. “And I have complete faith in Brenna to handle that on her own.”
“I start my rounds early,” Dr. Amaro said. “If the IV does the trick, I should be signing Sierra’s discharge papers by eight a.m.”
“You don’t need to come back tomorrow,” Sierra said to him, continuing her protest when the doctor had gone. “I can get a cab or—”
“I’ll be here at eight,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“I appreciate everything you did today, but I’m not your responsibility, Deacon.”
“Maybe not,” he acknowledged, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “But you are my friend.”
She managed a wobbly smile. “Thank you for being my friend.”
“Always,” he said, and meant it.
Even if he suddenly found himself longing to be so much more.