Major Renovations (Ritter University #1) (11 page)

“How can we be waiting on the inspector? We’re supposed to break ground tomorrow. Haven’t you called him?” Her father flinched and shook his head.

“I called him. He hasn’t called me back.”

“Then call him again, Samantha.” His face contorted as he slithered forward. His knee nearly buckled, and confusion covered his too-pale face.

“Dad?” Samantha watched in horror as her father grabbed his own arm, his face ashen. His eyes widened, his pupils black pools. Time stilled as her father leaned forward, breath stuttering.

She couldn’t move. Her mind watched. Her body waited. For instruction. For anything. She had to move. She. Had. To do. Something.

Large arms wrapped around her father’s waist and guided him to the picnic table.

“Samantha, call nine-one-one. Bryan, I’m going to sit you down, right here on the bench.”

She watched Ski sit her father on the bench and lean him back against the table. When he removed his hands, her father slipped forward, and Ski was right there, keeping him in place. Words flew from Ski’s lips. Soothing words. Questions. He held her father in place and shoved a hard object in her hand.

“Huh?” She blinked stupidly at the cell phone and then at Ski.

“Samantha, honey. Dial. Nine-one-one. Now. We don’t have much time.”

She grabbed Ski’s phone and stared at the blurred screen. Nine-one-one. Her shaking fingers hit the numbers, and they must have hit the right ones because a woman came on the line, asking the nature of the emergency. Miraculously, Sam’s voice decided to work. “My father, he collapsed.” She even remembered the address. Tears filled her eyes as she stood helplessly next to the table. Ski had her father talking.

“The paramedics are on the way,” the woman said over the line.

Ski laid a hand on Samantha’s arm. “Samantha, honey, I need you to get the baby aspirin from your father’s glove compartment.”

“Huh?” Baby aspirin? Why would he need—

“Your father just said he has some baby aspirin in the glove compartment. I need you to grab it.”

She ran to the truck and opened the door. She found the bottle and brought it back to Ski. Sirens howled in the distance, slowly getting closer.

Ski opened the bottle and put two pills in her father’s mouth. “Chew on these. They’ll help you feel better.” He pulled off his jacket, wrapping it around her father. Samantha stared helplessly on the sidelines, her brain still refusing to process more than the minimum.

Men ran around the corner of the house, one of them carrying a medical bag. “We need a gurney,” one yelled, and another ran back to the front of the house.

“How are you today, Mister…?” the man with the bag asked, crouching down by Sam’s father.

“Smith,” Ski answered. “Bryan Smith.”

“And you are?” He looked at Ski as he reached in his bag and pulled out a stethoscope.

“Friend. This is his daughter. He was behaving normally, then he grabbed his left arm and slowly slumped forward. I helped him to the table. He was semi-coherent. Able to answer most questions I asked correctly. His breathing is shallow and his pulse is weak. I just gave him two baby aspirin.”

“Thanks.” The EMT placed his fingers on her father’s wrist just as two men appeared, pushing a gurney. With practiced ease, they moved her father onto it and got him secured.

A hand rested on her back. “He’ll be all right. Let’s follow him to the hospital.”

She nodded. Unable to speak. Her father. She couldn’t lose him. She just couldn’t.

~»ΨΡ«~

Chapter
Seventeen

Ski

THE WAITING room was crowded. Morning fluff chirped from the television hanging from the white walls as Ski sat in a green vinyl chair while Samantha paced back and forth, tissue in her hand.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked for the second— third? fourth?— millionth time.

“No. I want to know what's taking so long.” She turned to the internal windows lining the room, watching the doctors and nurses hustling past, trying to keep up with the waiting room of patients and family. But not one came in to give a status. What the hell was taking so long?

“He'll be okay. We got him here in time.” He hoped.

“How do you know?” Tears slid down her cheeks. “How can you be so sure?”

Ski got up and wrapped Samantha in his arms, wishing he could just take away all the pain. Tell her everything would be fine and know that it was true. But she was right. He was pretty sure they got there in time, but there was no guarantee. “I can't be sure. I wish I could.”

“I can't lose him. He's all I have left.”

“You have me. I'm not going anywhere.” He ran a hand down her silken hair. He hated that she had to go through this. He hated they were so helpless. On the wrong side of the door. He should be helping. He should be in there with her father, making sure he made it back to his daughter.

“You're sweet.” Samantha dabbed the tears falling from her eyes with a tissue.

A helpless ache wrapped around Ski's throat. There was nothing he could do, and every tear was a dagger to his heart. He would do anything, say anything, to stop her tears. To make sure she knew he was here for her. He cared about her.

“I love you.” Silence greeted the words that snuck past his lips, a noose squeezing tighter and tighter around his neck. The words hung in the air. What had he done? They'd only been together for a little under a month. Best weeks of his life, but it was way too soon to talk love. Dammit.

“Ms. Thunder.”

“Yes.” She pulled away from Ski's arms.

“I'm Dr. Pekich. Your father's angina has worsened, and he’s had a mild heart attack. We need to keep him here for observation.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Yes, with diet and exercise, he should be fine. He was very lucky. That was quick thinking giving him aspirin on the scene.”

“That wasn't me.” She grabbed Ski's hand. “That was Ski.”

“Smart thinking,” the doctor said.

“He is smart. Maybe even pre-med.”

“Yeah. I’m pre-med.” And he was pre-med. He was going to med school. Maybe not to specialize in surgery. But emergency medicine. He was going to spend his time on the other side of that damn door. He was not going to be left out in the waiting room, helpless, ever again.

“Well, we'd love to have you, son. Ms. Thunder, you may go see your father if you'd like.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and turned to Ski. “Thank you for staying with me, but you can leave. Go home and get some sleep.”

“How will you get home?”

“I'm not leaving anytime soon. I'll call Barry when I leave for home.”

“I can stay...”

“I know.” She curled her hand around his arm. “But it doesn't help having us both here. There's nothing we can do. Go home and relax.”

“Call me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

“And don't call Barry. I can pick you up when you go home.”

“’Bye, Ski.” She kissed his cheek, lingering a little too long before turning and following the doctor down the hall. He watched her walk away, and she never even glanced back.

He wanted to believe she was just worried about her dad. It had nothing to do with his verbal fuck-up. But he couldn’t seem to find the energy to lie to himself about it.

He’d messed up and this time, there was no smooth-talking his way out of it.

~»ΨΡ«~

Chapter
Eighteen

Sam

SAMANTHA STOOD at her father’s sink, hands immersed in soapy water. The pink suds tickled her elbows as she pulled out the bowl from her dad’s lunch. He’d been home a little over a week, and he was starting to feel better. Too bad she didn’t feel any better. She missed Ski. Not that she’d admit that.

Thud
.

“Crap.” She spun around. Her father held a large laundry basket, hopping on one foot. Feeling better was a good thing, but it meant he was ignoring everyone about taking it easy. Especially his daughter.

“What are you doing?” She flew to his side, almost tearing the basket out of his hands. “The doctor said you need to take it easy for the next few days. You can’t carry this stuff around.”

“I’m fine.”

“Tell your heart that. Now, go sit down.”

“I need to do laundry.” He pouted.

Why were men such babies about things like this? “I’ll do the laundry.”

“You need to get to the site. Adam Byrnes is a huge client.”

“Dad, I made Barry a manager. He’s on site. He can handle it until I get back.” She dropped the basket of clothes next to the basement door, the plastic bouncing on the cold ceramic tiles.

“I know he can handle it, but it’s better to have you both there. At least until you transfer all the parts of your job over to him.”

“Why would I transfer all of my job to him? This is just until you don’t need me twenty-four seven.”

Her father leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “No, this is permanent.”

“Are you firing me?” Samantha’s breath stopped. Her heart stopped. Her father was firing her for screwing up so badly. “I’m so sorry I messed up the Psi Rho house, but I’ll do better. I’m just learning.” She had no problem begging. At the moment, she wasn’t above crying, either. This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

“No, sweetheart, but I talked with Bob. He needs an apprentice, and you need to be an electrician.”

She stopped before she did a fish imitation. “I
don’t—
”

“But you want it, and I can’t take that away from you.”

“What—” Why couldn’t she breathe? She tried again. “What about the company? I know I can’t be that son you always wanted, but I can carry on your legacy.”

Her father blinked at her. “Son?”

“You told mom you wanted a son to carry on the family name, to build your legacy.” When her father frowned at her, she added, “Your company.”

“I don’t want a son,” he said slowly. “I don’t need one. You— you’re my legacy. Not the company. And I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become.” He lowered himself into a chair. “You’ve helped me so much over the years. Now it’s your turn.” He waved a hand. “Go. Learn. Construction is
my
passion. Go find yours.”

Despite the open windows, the kitchen was definitely lacking in oxygen at the moment. “Thanks, Dad, but I can’t take that on now, not till you're on your feet.” As excuses went, that was pretty good, she thought.

“Samantha Anne Thunder, now who’s afraid? I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, and I can cover my ears with my hands and sing
la la la
so I don’t have to listen to you whine. We can do a lot of things. That doesn’t mean we should. You’re still healing.” How else could she possibly explain? How much clearer did she need to be? “I can’t leave you alone,” she said. And it was true— she was terrified to leave the house, leave him.

“So you want to stay here and babysit forever, then.” Her father sat back in the chair, and oh yes, she recognized that look on his face.

“No.” She didn’t
want
to. She just planned on it.

“Yes.”

“I can’t help it. I can’t lose you. You’re all I have.”

“Hm.” He played with the mail sitting on the table. “It seemed like just a week ago you had someone else.”

“Do you want me to bring your dessert to your chair, put your shows on?” Samantha knew how to change the subject when it came to her father. Food and
This Old House
. And the combination was enough to move the conversation off of Ski. She didn’t want to talk about him. She didn’t want to think about him. It hurt too much.

“Is it ice cream?”

“No. Still can’t eat that.”

“Hm. Fine. I don’t see how anything without sugar can be called dessert. It’s like living in prison.” He got to his feet and headed for the living room, settling in the plaid recliner directly in front of the television.

She walked to the nearly empty fridge and pulled out a bowl of strawberries. A trip to the grocery store was on her list of things to do today, but she wanted to get rid of all the high-fat, pure-crap food first, before she bought all the good stuff.

She set the bowl of strawberries on her father’s end table. He nodded, captivated by the episode of
This Old House
on the screen.

Just as she turned to head back for the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Her father lowered his legs and went to get up.

“Sit.” She briefly rested a hand on his shoulder as she passed him.

She threw open the door. Dammit. She should have checked the peephole. It was probably too late to pretend they weren’t home now.

His body took up the whole front porch. The fruit basket with a get-well ribbon was dwarfed by his massive arms and hands. “I tried to call.”

And she’d avoided every one of those calls since the hospital. He loved her. When did that happen? Better yet, why?

“Did you get my text?” She wasn’t a barbarian. He had a right to know how her father was progressing. And an impersonal text was the safest way to communicate.

“That your dad was doing okay? Yes.”

“Good.” She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see the hurt, the disappointment, the anger, whatever emotion he had for her. She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to know what she’d done, how he hated her. It would absolutely kill her.

“Can I come in?”

“Um…” She wanted to say yes, but it just didn’t seem right. They were on two different paths. She didn’t want to rely on him, for anything. Because when he left…? She’d be crushed that he wasn’t there anymore.