Captivating the CEO

by Sara Daniel

  When the next train arrived, she stepped on, not knowing or caring which direction it headed, and sank into a seat half-overrun by the overweight gentleman next to her. Her heart raced, her fingers trembled, and tears blurred her vision. Pulling out her phone, she texted, Mom, I’m so scared. I need you.

  By the time Willow arrived at her apartment, her mother stood in the open doorway with her arms outstretched. Falling into her embrace, Willow sobbed, babbling her fears and railing at the unfairness of being born with a heart defect while everyone around her took for granted their fully functional, four-chamber hearts.

  Like every other time, her mother held and soothed her, crying with her until the burden became bearable again.

  Chapter Six

  “Who are you?” Colin demanded of the tall, full-figured woman dressed in classic business casual attire who’d stepped inside his office.

  He’d waited all week for Louise to book a massage for him, despite personally texting Willow, to which she never replied. Now another woman stood in front of him, claiming to be his new massage therapist.

  “I’m Rachel. I’m taking over Willow’s clients until she returns to work.”

  “What are you talking about? What happened to her? Why can’t she work?” Cold fingers of apprehension skittered up his back. He should have taken more seriously the way she’d nearly passed out when she came to his office on Monday.

  “I only know what’s posted to the Facebook page,” Rachel said. “You were expecting me though, right? Your secretary said she got my name and number from the voicemail message Willow set up.”

  Not wanting to appear needy by adding voice messages to his texts, he’d never called her. “I’ll compensate you for your trouble coming, but I don’t want a massage from anyone but her.”

  “That’s your prerogative, of course, but if you’re having severe tension, you might want to reconsider. She won’t be back for quite a while. Even once she gets home, she’s going to have a long recovery before she’s cleared to work.”

  His stomach lurched. Recovery. “Home from where?”

  “The hospital, of course.”

  “Willow’s in the hospital?” He lunged out of his chair, panic blooming in his chest. “Which one?”

  Rachel answered, and he beat her out the door. Refusing to wait for the elevator, he raced down the stairwell. The taxi took forever to snake across town in the congested Friday afternoon traffic. Willow couldn’t be in the hospital—a children’s hospital according to Rachel, which had to be a mistake. Yes, Willow would laugh about this miscommunication when he described later how he’d bolted across town.

  The cab dropped him off and he approached the main desk, expecting the clerk to tell him they had no record of her in the hospital system. Instead she directed him to the sixth floor. Waiting for the elevator, he paced in front of the map on the wall identifying the sixth floor as the cardiac unit. Cardiac? What was wrong with Willow’s heart?

  Surely, she would have mentioned something serious.

  Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, he stopped at another check-in desk and gave the clerk Willow’s name. The woman frowned and shook her head. Relief filled him. Of course an adult woman would not be in a pediatric hospital.

  “I can’t let you in,” she said. “The patient is under restricted, family-only access.”

  The patient. Willow. Here. On the cardiac floor of a children’s hospital. After sharing his life story with her, he obviously knew nothing about her. His own heart clenched. “I need to see her.”

  The clerk eyed him coolly. “Our concern is to protect the health of the patient.”

  Not his needs. His anger and frustration over her secrets dissolved in his growing pool of fear. Dear God, Willow was in the hospital, and he couldn’t reach her. “Please. She’s the most important person in the world to me. I’m worried about her.”

  “I’ll call the nurses’ station. They can relay your request to the family. That’s all I can do.” Picking up a phone, she paused as a set of double doors opened and a man with a two-day stubble stepped out. “Peter, you’re just the man I need to get a hold of.”

  “Hey, Lillibelle.” Despite his haggard appearance and haunted eyes, he summoned a tired smile for the woman.

  “This man has come to see your sister.” The clerk gave a nod in his direction. “He says she’s important to him.” I can have security escort him out, but I’ll let you make the decision was left unspoken.

  Colin sucked in his breath. Never in all his business deals had so much ridden on a single first impression. With lead feet, he stepped forward and offered his hand to the man who appeared to be going through hell—a hell somehow connected to Willow. “I’m Colin Vanderhayden. Willow and I have gotten close over the past couple weeks. I’d like to see her, if she’ll let me.”

  Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You sure as hell better not have been doing what I think you’re implying, considering how sick she was.”

  “Sick?” Cold shivers of sweat glided down his back. “She seemed fine.”

  “Of course, she’ll let you think so,” Peter bit out in exasperation. “She’ll hide it until she can’t anymore, and passes out.”

  Like on Monday. The blood rushed from his head as he remembered, leaving him dizzy.

  “I don’t think you’re as close to Willow as you think you are.” Peter gave him a challenging look. “In fact, I don’t think you know the first thing about her.”

  Hating he’d come to the same revelation, Colin bunched his fists. Punching her brother wouldn’t help him gain access. Attempting to prove how close they’d been wouldn’t win him any favors either. As much as he wanted to be proactive, he needed to let Peter take the lead. “How do you suggest I learn?”

  Peter eyed the smartphone hooked on Colin’s belt. “You have a Facebook app on that phone?”

  Lifting it from its case, he nodded.

  “Good. Search for the page Prayers for Willow Jeffries. Read the About section, and then read through the past week’s worth of posts.”

  Colin swallowed, the name of the group sending shivers through him. Prayers, in his experience, signified a last resort, and he stood one terrifying search away from discovering why the most vibrant person he’d ever met needed them.

  “Then if you want to claim she’s important to you, I’ll come back and talk to you.” Switching his attention to Lillibelle, he said, “He doesn’t move from here unless he’s leaving. Got it?”

  “You betcha.” She gave Peter a bright smile, leaving no doubt Colin wouldn’t sway her to bend the rules.

  Sinking into a vinyl chair, he sucked back his aversion to social media. Willow’s dazzling profile picture filled his screen, and he clicked according to Peter’s instructions.

  Hey, I’m Willow, and if you know me, you know I’d rather talk about anything but this. But Mom and Dad and Peter wanted a place to update everyone at once, and I wanted as much of it as possible to be in my own words. As most of you already know, I was born with a congenital heart defect (CHD) called tricuspid atresia. I had open heart surgeries—a Fontan operation; Google it if you want the boring specifics—as a baby, and again as a little kid, that pretty much got rid of the defective right side of my heart, so I only have the left side. The repair job started leaking when I was a teen and took a couple of surgeries to fix. Now, I’m having issues again, which you might have guessed from my scary blue lips and fingernails. The surgeon’s going to replace the original material with better stuff they’ve developed over the past twenty years, which is good news for my heart, assuming all goes well. I can’t assume anything, though. I love you all. One way or another, I’ll see you on the other side. Willow

  Unable to breathe, Colin returned to the main page and scrolled through well-wishes until he found the page posts. Finding the post from Tuesday when he’d last seen Willow, he read forward.

  Checking in now—with Mom and Dad. Peter will come soon.

  Shocking the nurses
with my low oxygen sats. This is kind of fun.

  Never thought I’d be so happy to be hooked up to O2. Tons more energy already.

  Dr. Marshall found out I went skydiving on the Saturday before Mom and Dad arrived. I think he’s going to yell at me until his lips are as blue as mine. Mom overheard. Apparently, I’m not an adult entitled to make my own decisions. Sigh.

  Insanely early Wednesday morning. Peter’s here. Brought coffee for everyone, but won’t share with me. Typical brother.

  Anesthesia says is it’s time to go under. Handing the phone over to Peter before I drunk-dial a certain blue-eyed CEO.

  Colin blinked and reread the sentence. One of her last thoughts before surgery had been of him. Why hadn’t she asked him to be with her in person?

  The updates now came from her brother. In surgery. No word yet.

  Still in surgery. On heart-lung machine.

  Still.

  Still. More complicated than expected, whatever the hell that means. Praying.

  Mom says I shouldn’t say hell. Waiting is hell.

  Sorry, Mom.

  Good news, finally. Off heart-lung machine. Big sigh of relief. Thank you, God.

  Chest almost closed.

  Surgeon here to talk to us. Bottom line: Surgery a success, now the long road to recovery. Breathing tube, four chest tubes, a bunch of other things. Mom can explain better.

  Colin skimmed more messages, updates as she moved from recovery to the hospital room, the long days and nights, concerns about chest fluid, and a host of medical terms that meant nothing to him. Two days later every update still came from Peter, with the occasional clarification from her mother—nothing in Willow’s own words.

  Typing a get-well post, he added to the horde of well-wishers and then began to Google the medical terms, trying to understand her condition. His own heart ached at the three emotional days he’d experienced within a half hour. Yet, his discomfort meant nothing compared to the trauma within her chest.

  “You’re still here.” Peter strode out of the elevator.

  Sliding his phone into its case, Colin stood, ready to face the other man on equal footing. “Yes, and I’m not leaving.”

  “She’s still intubated and can’t talk to you.”

  “Intubated?” Despite reading the updates, he didn’t know what that meant.

  “On a breathing machine, sedated. They’re trying to wean her off so she’ll breathe on her own. Then they can take the tube out of her throat and let her regain consciousness. It was supposed to happen yesterday.” His bleak tone proved more heart-wrenching than his words.

  “I need to see her,” Colin insisted.

  Peter caught the eye of the desk clerk and nodded.

  A moment later, with a silver paper wristband as his entry ticket, Colin followed Willow’s brother through the hallway. A baby’s cries came from one room as they walked by, beeping monitors sounded from multiple directions, muffled conversation filtered from one corner of a hall, and a cheerful voice announced the arrival of a food tray outside another room.

  “Why is she in a children’s hospital?” The placement continued to bewilder him.

  “Her condition is a birth defect, so pediatric cardiologists, nurses, and surgeons understand and specialize in treating it. Her problem is light-years different from some overweight guy’s corroded-artery triple bypass. A generation before she was born, she would have died as a baby. Adult hospitals are slowly catching up to deal with kid problems in adult bodies, but in Willow’s case, her doctor felt more comfortable having her treated here with the pediatric surgeon who performed her previous surgeries.”

  Good rationale, although Colin’s chest squeezed at the thought she could have died so young, without him becoming aware of her existence.

  Peter stopped in front of a small sink. “Wash and sanitize your hands. When we go in the room, don’t touch the tubes, wires, tape, or anything else attached to Willow, got it?”

  He nodded, too overwhelmed to do more than copy her brother’s actions. After following him through a sliding door and around a drawn, floor-to-ceiling curtain, he stopped. He expected to see Willow lying on the other side, but not the whirring, beeping machines surrounding her, the mess of tubes and wires leading to the bed, and her body, with closed eyes and a large plastic tube protruding from chapped pink lips.

  “That’s not Willow.” The automatic denial slipped out as little more than a whisper. He would have recognized her anywhere, but he didn’t know that woman. In desperation, he glanced around the room, hoping to find her sitting on a visitor’s chair.

  Instead, an older man rose to his feet, his hazel eyes blazing. “No, but she’s in there. We have to get her to come back to us.” His voice cracked, and he squeezed Peter’s shoulders before striding from the room.

  A middle-aged woman sat in the corner, knitting needles clicking in time with the beeping machines. Catching Peter’s gaze, she gave him the slightest shake of her head. The unspoken worry and despair hung between them.

  No wonder Willow didn’t want him around. Despite bypassing introductions, these people were clearly her parents. They and her brother understood each other without words. He didn’t know what they were going through.

  Peter put his hand on the metal bed rail. “Willow, you’re not going to believe this, but I found a guy trying to sneak by Lillibelle at the front desk. I think he’s ugly—blue eyes, six foot, brown hair, clean shaven, charcoal suit with a blue tie—but he looks like the type you’d go all gushy for. Anyway, I let him in the room to see you, and you haven’t combed your hair in days.”

  “I combed your hair this morning,” her mother rushed to assure her from across the room. “But they won’t let me wash it until the tube comes out.”

  The figure on the bed didn’t stir.

  Peter’s shoulders sagged, as if he lost hope his words would rile her into waking up.

  “Can I?” Colin asked, stepping forward.

  Peter gestured for him to take his place by the bed.

  Grasping the cold rail, Colin stared down at her face, the same oval shape, but the complexion was wrong. Considering the circumstances, he expected pasty and wan. Instead, she sported more color than any time he’d known her.

  Creamy skin tinged with pink was her true coloring, not the pale, translucent version. My God. How stupid of him to assume the blue lips equaled a fashion statement instead of a symptom of how damn sick she’d been.

  After several deep breaths, he found his voice. “Willow, this is Colin, in case you don’t recognize me. Some lady came to my office and tried to give me a massage. I threw a fit because she wasn’t you. Go ahead and mock my self-centered stereotypical CEO behavior. I didn’t come charging out of my office to complain about the massage, or even because you never told me you were having surgery. I want you to get better. You’re the only one who has the nerve to disconnect my phone in the middle of a call.”

  No matter how hard he stared, her lashes didn’t flutter. Her hands didn’t move. She didn’t sit up and laugh at him.

  “Even if you never want to come back to my office again,” his throat tightened, making speech painful, “I need to know you’re enjoying life. Which is what you should be doing, not hanging around with a guy who thinks his paperwork and phone calls are more important than heart surgery.”

  No response. Squeezing his eyes shut did nothing to block his self-loathing.

  “Mom, come look at this,” Peter said.

  “What?” Colin opened his eyes again, hoping for a miracle, but everything looked the same.

  Willow’s mother dropped her knitting and dashed across the room, joining him at the bed. “Oh my gosh.”

  While she and Peter squinted at the monitors with the multiple lines and numbers, he studied their faces for clues of good news or if he’d precipitated something bad.

  “While you were talking, her heart rate sped up, and she breathed on her own,” Peter explained. “Once you stopped, it dropped off again.�
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  “Keep talking.” Her mother confirmed his positive action.

  His head emptied of any conversation pieces. Not knowing what else to say, he relayed every moment from the replacement masseuse entering his office to him arriving in her room. By the time he finished the long, tedious monologue, her mother and Peter looked him as if he were their new best friend.

  Nothing in the corporate world mattered anymore. Only the person lying on the bed in front of him mattered, and she’d never shared a single detail of the most important part of her life.

  ***

  Voices swirled in and out. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of faces. Some she recognized. Some she didn’t. Her head pounded, and her throat hurt like hell. She vaguely remembered the swallow test, so the breathing tube must be out. That would explain the killer sore throat. The pain pulled at her again, but she resisted. Thirsty, so thirsty. Her voice burned at the effort to ask for a drink, and only a small moan emitted.

  A tiny piece of ice settled on her tongue. In search of more, she turned her head. Her mother smiled at her, eyes shiny.

  “Welcome back.”

  The small movement left her dazed. Something stabbed her in the lungs with every breath. Chest tubes, of course. So much for the pipe dream of escaping surgery without that medieval torture device. Keeping her head and body immobile, she scanned the room for Dad and Peter.

  “Peter went to shower and shave. We’re all glad he did, trust me,” Mom said, reading her mind as always.

  Her father lowered his crossword puzzle and stood, glancing toward the corner of the room before ambling over. But the corner chair transfixed her. The spitting image of Colin sat with a laptop and a briefcase full of papers spread in front of him. God damn it, she hated when the drugs caused her to hallucinate. Regardless of the pain she’d suffer without the morphine drip, she needed to unhook it now.

  Trying to convey her thoughts, she emitted a small grunt, and her mother misread her, thrusting another ice chip between her chapped lips.