Found Read Online Free Page B

and hit the Lower Manhattan end of Broadway. There would be no loopy handwritten signs there advertising mani-pedis for a bargainous five dollars; no grown men lazing on stoops. This is a side of New York I’ve never seen.
    I cross over the road and head down 1st Avenue, and a few minutes later I’m back at the hospital – no wonder I was only in the cab for a few minutes last night. Looking at it this morning it seems dingy – the folly of a faded brownstone building – but appearances are deceptive because this is one of the best hospitals in the country for heart issues and cardiovascular care.
    Maybe that five bucks mani-pedi would have been the best mani-pedi ever, I ponder, as I head inside and take the lift up to Piers’ floor. I mean, appearances are deceptive: look at Piers. He hasn’t looked well, but I never suspected he was really ill – something I will be calling him out on once he’s recovered. 
    I hover at the door and watch the man I love for a few minutes. Piers is so absorbed in his laptop that he doesn’t even notice me.
    He’s still hooked up to various machines, and there’s that awful tube poking out of his chest, only covered slightly by his hospital gown. Another wire pokes out from underneath his gown – that one is linked to a machine displaying numbers with squiggly lines – but thankfully his full-on oxygen mask has been replaced by a small nasal tube. He also has an IV in his hand, and another tube that’s linked to a catheter bag which is stuck on the side of his bed. This room looks reassuringly familiar from my love of Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs , but it is rather terrifying at the same time.
    ‘I hope you’re not working,’ I sternly say as I enter the room.
    He jumps in surprise and snaps down the lid of his laptop, causing one of the machines to beep a bit faster.
    ‘Were you working?’ I storm over to the bed and snatch his laptop from him. With that reaction, he must have been.
    ‘Arielle–’
    I glare at him, and flip the lid up. Who has major surgery and then goes to work the very next day? He is an absolute idiot sometimes. No job is worth killing yourself over.
    ‘What’s this?’ I ask as I take in what I am seeing on the screen.
    I turn around his laptop so he can see the screen – not that he needs to see it since he was the one surfing the web and looking at this mere moments ago.
    ‘Pony, I...’ He sounds hoarse still. I look around and can’t see any water, so I’ll get that rectified. Well, unless he’s not allowed any fluids or food yet, or maybe that’s what one of those tubes deals with. It hits me in this moment that Piers is seriously ill, even if he thinks he’s not.
    ‘Piers, why were you looking at that?’ I ask. I think I’d rather have caught him doing work. Or even looking at porn. This website, weirdly, makes me feel very uneasy. ‘Is there something you need to ask me?’ I press.
    ‘Good morning to you, too,’ he mutters.
    I pull him a pointed look, close the laptop, then lean in and kiss him gently on the cheek. OK, so I was being a bit bitchy, but he really should be resting: Piers Bramley plus a laptop does not equal a chilled-out state. That might not have been work, but it could quite easily have been. He only had surgery yesterday . When I had my operation on my ankle, I was woozy for days – I’m secretly impressed that he’s not a half-asleep mess.
    ‘Good morning, Piers.’ I smile at him and sit down on the wide padded chair next to his bed. It’s a far cry from the plastic hospital waiting chairs we have back home. ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘I’m OK,’ he answers, ‘but how are you?’
    Piers Bramley, a true gent, one who is more concerned about me than he is himself. He’s the last of a dying breed, I’m convinced of it.
    ‘I’m fine.’ I reach over and squeeze his hand, careful not to knock his cannula.
    ‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.
    OK, so we’re not going to talk about what I’ve just