Chapter Twenty-Five
Jaye saved her document and powered off the laptop. If she worked a few more hours tonight in her hotel room, she might finish the website’s instructions for Veronica.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway. “Nick? Are you here? Shit.”
The man’s voice sounded familiar, but the tremble in his last word stood out like a blip in a computer program. She approached her office door, peered into the hallway, and saw Phil.
He speared a hand through his hair and shot her an agitated look. “Where’s Nick?”
“He left a half hour ago. It’s Monday, so I believe his stepsons have football practice.”
“Then you’re the only one here.” Another swipe of his hand created furrows through his sandy curls. “Mitch cut himself on a shard of glass. I can’t stick around because I’ve got to pick up my wife at the airport, but I’m worried about him. He sliced himself pretty bad.”
Numbness spread through her legs. “Does he need stitches?”
“Probably.” An apology radiated from his gaze. “Listen, Jaye. I know things are strained between the two of you, but could you check on him? If I leave him alone, he won’t go to the hospital.”
“Why not?”
“When he was thirteen, he had meningitis. The virus didn’t kill him, but the infection he got in the hospital nearly did. After he was discharged, he swore he’d never go back.”
Mitch had mentioned the meningitis, but never mentioned he nearly died. No wonder he was reluctant to seek medical help. Jaye shrugged into her blazer, grabbed her purse, and followed Phil through the lobby. As they approached the studio’s heavy door, Jaye curled her toes inside her black heels. If things were dire, could she drag a man Mitch’s size into the emergency room?
Phil opened the door and pointed to Mitch, who stood by the sink near the coffee station. “Take good care of him, okay?”
“Everything will be fine.” She nudged Phil. “Go get Patti.”
He took one last look at his friend and strode away.
Jaye stepped into the studio and let the door thump shut. The furnace roared in her ears like a dragon who hadn’t been fed in weeks. Orange light caressed Mitch’s impressive back, painting his red T-shirt with gold. He looked invincible, but the blood soaked towel around his forearm proved he was all too mortal. Swallowing thickly, she approached and cast a shadow across the sink.
“I’m fine, Phil. Go get Patti.” Mitch kept his gaze on his arm and tightened the towel.
She looked at his workstation a few feet away. Glass shards glittered on the smooth concrete floor. Rusty splats dotted a trail toward the sink—Mitch had started bleeding profusely the minute he cut himself. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
Mitch turned toward her with a startled jerk. “What are you doing here?”
“Phil sent me.” She snatched Mitch’s blue coat off a nearby hook. “Let’s go.”
“No need. I’m fine.” He clamped his hand over his forearm in a makeshift tourniquet. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“I beg to differ.” She pointed to the three bloody towels discarded on the counter.
“Did you see the note I put on your desk?”
“Yes.” A drip of blood escaped from the towel, rolling toward Mitch’s wrist. Jaye watched the drop roll into the crease between his thumb and forefinger. Fear sucked the moisture out of her mouth, making her tongue stick to her teeth. “Applying pressure to your wound isn’t working. You’re still bleeding.”
“Not as much as before.” He nodded toward a table along the wall. “I made a couple of items I’d like you to photograph.”
She glanced in that direction, catching sight of a graceful pitcher, a round platter, and a cake pedestal. Guilt clenched around her diaphragm, punching the air out of her lungs. Had he rushed to finish those items so they’d be ready before she left? “Anyone can photograph your new products.”
“No. You’re the only one who’ll do them justice.”
The gruff complement echoed dimly in her ears as she watched a drip of blood fall onto the concrete floor, making a dark red splatter near Mitch’s boot. Jaye’s eyes stung. What if he lost too much blood and she couldn’t get him to the ER in time? “Get in the car, Mitch. Please.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. What if you nicked an artery or sliced a tendon?” Perhaps a dose of brutal honesty would propel him out of the factory. She swallowed hard, forcing her dry tongue to blurt the ragged truth. “I’m scared. Let me take you to the hospital.”
“You’re scared?”
“Terrified. Please come with me. Don’t try to fix this yourself. You need help.” She threw him a pleading look and noticed that the vein in his temple had begun to bulge, a sure sign he was stressed.
“The bleeding is slowing down. I’m fi—”
“You’re not fine. There’s a deep gash on your arm. You can’t fix it by yourself. We’re going to the ER.” She softened her command with a heartfelt promise. “I won’t leave your side until you’re patched up.”
He arched one bronze brow. “Could take all night. A trip to the hospital is never quick.”
“I don’t have plans.” She hugged his coat against her chest. “If you saw that Carter or Brody had a cut like yours, would you take them to the hospital?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his pocket with his good arm and extracted his keys. “Drive the truck. I don’t want to bleed all over your car.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” She snatched the keys out of his hand before he could change his mind.
By the time they reached the hospital, the towel around his arm was soaked a deep, crimson red.
The ER nurse at the admitting desk took one look at the bloody towel and blanched. “How long have you been bleeding like that?”
Mitch shrugged. “Half hour.”
“We’ll fill out the paperwork later. Follow me.” The nurse led them down a corridor and stuck her head into one of the examining rooms. “Dr. Spencer, a patient needs you
