Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Seventy-Five

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I can barely stop myself from rolling my eyes at the question.

Ugh, not the 'good news, bad news' trope.

I'm so not in the mood for this. I sigh audibly, unable—and unwilling—to contain my irritation with this whole situation and the way he seems to be stalling on just getting it over with and telling me what I need to know.

On another note, what is it with people and this damn question? 'Do you want the good news or the bad news first?' Jesus, does it fucking matter? Really, what tangible difference does it make which I hear first? I mean, won't I eventually hear them both, regardless?

And to be honest, it feels really weird coming from Frost. It's kind of freaking me out, actually. It just sounds so out of character for someone as serious as he is to say, but then again, maybe that's the whole point? Maybe the bad news really is so bad that someone as arrogant and borderline sociopathic as him feels the need to make me feel better about my fucked up situation by pacifying the blow with a lesser evil so that the whole thing doesn't sound as bad as it actually is?

Jesus, I'm rambling. My mind is racing. My heart is thumping. My palms are beginning to sweat. I need to calm down. I mean, it's just a question. Like being asked if you want coffee or tea. One just has a hell of a lot more caffeine than the other.

That's it. Just calm down, Roni...

I breathe out again deeply, but this time in an attempt to calm my fluttering, erratic heart that's going haywire at the prospect of receiving news that I know in my gut—no pun intended—will change my life for the worse.

My first instinct is to just get it over with and get the bad news out, that way I already know the worst of it and can't be broken any further by whatever else he has to tell me. But as each second slowly ticks by, my heart and every other fiber of my being can't take the anxiety and suspense and the dread of what I'm going to find out, especially after how emotionally draining yesterday was.

So impulsively, I say, "Good news," before I can change my mind again.

"Alright," he starts, flipping the folder open and turning it around on the desk so that it's facing me. My eyes dart to the picture attached by a paper clip in the center. It looks like something out of a '90s alien movie. But I vaguely recognize it from certain angles, mostly because of the weird spotty, purplish-black color haphazardly scattered over it. It's the tumor. The sheer thought that this...this vile-looking thing is just chilling in my insides without my permission makes me both angry and queasy.

"It's not cancerous," I hear Frost say suddenly.

My eyes shoot up to meet his as soon as the words leave his lips, and I swear in that moment, my heart feels like it's about to rupture from all its sides and implode in my chest.

"You don't have cancer, Ramona," he repeats when I remain silent, his eyes softening slightly. He almost looks relieved himself.

I actually open my mouth to finally say something after a moment, but nothing comes out. My tongue feels dry and my mind goes blank.

Suddenly, an immeasurable rush of relief blasts every inch of my system, but I'm not prepared for how hard it hits me. I become extremely light-headed, and everything gets blocked out by the rush of blood to my head.

My vision goes blurry, and for a minute, I think I'm going to pass out. My body is doing a billion things at once and I can't seem to keep up with it. I don't even realize that I'm hyperventilating until I feel Frost next to me, tugging at my forearms and pulling me to him.

Before I know it, I'm clutching his arms and my breaths are turning into sobs. I'm fucking crying. Literally in the arms of the one person I wouldn't be caught dead ever crying in front of.

I can't fucking believe this!

Fat tears start falling from my eyes without any warning whatsoever, further blurring my vision behind my glasses and leaving wet streaks across my face. Strained sobs hijack my every breath, lacing whatever air my now dysfunctional lungs can manage to take in at any given time, and I grip Frost harder, my hands impulsively going around his neck, my fingers gripping handfuls of the hair at his nape.

Unexpectedly, I feel his hand at the back of my head, his long fingers cupping me gently but firmly in spite of the mass of tangly curls that are in the way. I feel his other hand move between my shoulder blades and soon he's rubbing my back in long, soothing strokes that somehow only seem to make me want to hold on to him tighter.

I seriously thought I was all cried out from yesterday, but I guess not. I hate that I feel so weak and afraid in front of this man. I hate that he can see me like this, at my most vulnerable when he already has so much power over me. Even more than he might realize.

Somehow, I can hear him breathing softly through my erratic, gross-sounding sniffs, and my own stuttering breaths. Other than that, he's absolutely silent and says nothing at all the whole time I cry, but his hands show no signs of releasing me. I can feel his slow, steady breaths against my temple, warm and light and feathery, tickling my skin. It's a complete contrast to everything else about him. He always comes off so cold and stoic and rigid. This is just so...different. Too different.

I feel my shoulders slump as I sink into him further. Utter exhaustion and emotional release conspire against any willpower I have for self-preservation at this point, rendering all my walls and defenses useless and grinding them to dust.

I have no idea how long we stay that way, how much time actually goes by with me locked between his arms, but eventually, my sobs let up and I manage to calm down enough so that my chest is no longer heaving and my breaths are no longer leaving my lungs in short, uneven, huffs.

But then, just when I think I'm completely calm, one residual interrupted breath forces my chest to expand considerably as my shaky lungs suck in air. The involuntary reaction pushes my breasts into his chest, and suddenly, I'm so much more aware of just how big his body is, and how hard he feels beneath my trembling fingers.

I immediately feel my nipples grow hard inside my bra, becoming more and more sensitive as they push against the fabric of their cotton barrier.

It's only then that it dawns on me that my breasts are blatantly pressed against his chest. And in the seconds that follow, it also occurs to me that he might have felt them unintentionally rubbing against him while I was heaving like a madwoman.

I should feel mortified. I should feel embarrassed. At the very least, I should feel annoyed. And under normal circumstances, I definitely would.

But right now...I don't.

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