Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(88)

My chest tightens painfully.

No. He can’t see me like this.

I contemplate making a run for it. Maybe Megan and Frank could wheel my bed into a different ward. Or the morgue.

I can’t believe Megan called him. The last thing I need is for Tristan to check on me out of some misplaced guilt or obligation. Maybe he feels as if he has a duty of care as a boss or an ex-boyfriend. Or maybe he thinks I have no one else to turn to like some needy pathetic ex-girlfriend. It’s humiliating.

I have tubes coming out of both my arms and my nose. My hair is greasy, my eyes are puffy, and I'm sweating from lying in this bed. I look hideous.

An inflamed colon isn’t exactly a turn on, is it? If anything, it’ll confirm to him that he made the right choice.

“It’s okay,” I whisper to Megan because it’s not her fault. I don’t blame her for panicking.

His visit is just another item to add to the anxiety list. My list is growing.

My Crohn’s is officially out of control.

I’m as bloated as a Pot-bellied pig.

I’m stuffed full of steroids meaning by this time tomorrow I’ll have a face the size and shape of a full moon.

It also means I’m stuck in hospital for four days and will miss my work deadlines.

My mum is taking unprescribed drugs that could be horse tranquilisers for all we know.

I accidently drugged my boyfriend’s son.

Causing me to have no boyfriend.

There’s a charge of ten pounds a day to watch TV from my hospital bed.

And last but not least, the massive gaping hole Tristan left in my heart after deciding I wasn’t a good option after all.

I’m not sure what the priority order is.

I cry as I begin to lose control. Silent tears as I don’t have the energy to blubber. I can’t help this pity party.

I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared.

And stressed.

The nurse says don’t stress; it will make my flare-up worse. Does she know how stressful it is trying not to stress?

Megan squeezes my hand.

I glance over to find her watching me worried. Frank is watching the football on the TV wasting my money.

“Elly,” the nurse says gently as she peeps around the curtain. “You have another visitor.”



My heart hammers in my chest. I’m not prepared for this. Not now, in hospital, when I’m at my lowest.

Tristan steps inside the curtain before I can protest.



Every part of me tenses.



“Elly.” He stares at me, horrified. Like the devil has just materialised in front of him. I’ve never felt more unattractive in my entire life. He’s in jeans and the t-shirt I first saw him in, in Mykonos, making my heart break a little bit more.

The stalled air I’d been holding expels from my lungs in a gargle.

I stare back, ashamed and broken hearted.

I never wanted him to see me like this. My red wine loose lips meant he knew about my IBD from the beginning, but I skirted over it and joked about it. I knew he didn’t understand how bad it could get. Not really. Most people don’t. One guy I dated said it was too much information when I told him. When I had a flare, John simply ignored it. I stayed away and he let me.

Now Tristan can see it at its worst.

“You don’t need to be here,” I say, mortified. “I’m sorry Megan called. She just panicked. Its fine, you can leave now.”

His jaw tenses as he scans my body taking in the various tubes and needles. “I do need to be here. I need to make sure you’re okay, Elly.”

I stare into his beautiful heart-breaking face. I hate how he has become the puppet master of my emotions.

Megan clears her throat as her and Frank exchange looks. “Do you want us to -”

“No,” I cut in sharply. “Sorry about the inconvenience, Tristan, there was no need for you to come.”

I focus on my cannula pretending to fix it. I can’t meet his gaze, not when I know my eyes are so puffy I look like I’ve had a severe allergic reaction.

“Megan, Frank, can you give us some privacy please?” he asks.

“No need, stay,” I say, begging Megan with my eyes.

Megan rises from her chair, tugging at Frank’s arm. Traitors. “We’ll be right outside.” They close the curtain behind them, trapping me in the blue curtained stall with Tristan.

He takes a seat in the plastic chair that is way too small for his frame. For a moment he just stares at me.

“Are you in pain?”

I stiffen. I don’t need his pity. “I’m fine. I’m not your concern anymore.”

“Right now, you are my only concern.”

I stare back at him, angry and hurt. He has no right to say that to me. He made me trust him. He broke down my barriers when I wanted to keep them up. He told me I meant more. He let me fall in love with him. Then he went back to his real life. Rich man’s midlife crisis, the movie.

His frown deepens. “What happened?”



“I passed out because I was so dehydrated and low in iron.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Just a flare-up.”

“A flare-up that landed you in the hospital,” he murmurs. “We can get you private treatment. Madison healthcare will cover it. We’ll sort this. Whatever it takes.”