A Cowboy for the CEO

Chapter 3: Slippery when Wet

Sunday morning's surgery to reset her distal radius fracture—as Dr. Best-in-the-County described it—was a success. The five pins holding the broken pieces together were expected to make her recovery more painful and complicated, but the generous dose of painkillers she had received helped Ali not care as much.

Only when she learned that she wouldn't be discharged until Tuesday morning at the earliest did Ali panic. She had tons of daily meetings, not to mention deliverables that now couldn't get done. Without access to her laptop or cell phone—her father still refused to hand over either—she couldn't even prepare for the business trip to California she had later in the week. As the surgical anesthesia wore off and her body hurt more and more again, the added anxiety made her even sicker.

"Just give me her number and I'll call your assistant for you," Robert offered, turning away as she vomited bile into a plastic kidney-shaped dish. "What was her name again? Nora?"

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hospital gown, Ali held out her hand. "Give it to me. I need to talk to her."

When Nora didn't answer, Ali was stuck with leaving a harried voice mail about having a medical emergency, but expecting to return to the office by Wednesday.

"Are you sure about that?" Robert looked skeptical when she handed his phone back. "Didn't the doc say to rest for at least a week or two?"

"I'm fine, Robert," Ali replied before hunching over the vomit pan again.

* * *

Against her mother's wishes, on Tuesday Ali headed back to Manhattan. Marco had graciously offered to drive her home, but apart from making a wisecrack about the color of the short arm cast running from the base of her elbow to the middle of her hand, his greeting was terse.

Like it was her fault someone in the operating room had decided to use neon-pink fiberglass on the accessory she'd be wearing for the next six weeks.

Ali sighed. The two-hour drive would be awkward, but she knew better than to pry her brother for conversation. It would probably circle back to how she'd ruined their parents' special weekend anyway. They had visited the hospital every day and insisted her well-being was their priority, but Ali worried they were quietly disappointed by her foolishness. How could they not have been, when even she couldn't forgive herself?

Marco's Range Rover hit a pothole, and Ali balanced the vase full of summer wildflowers on her lap so it wouldn't spill. The bouquet had officially come from Foxhall Investments, but Nora was more than likely responsible for the gesture. It was the only thing Ali took away from the hospital; she'd left the two-dozen red roses from Robert to brighten up the nurses' station.

When she finally arrived home, her fourteenth-floor Greenwich Village apartment felt emptier than ever. Dragging herself to the couch, she fired up her laptop for the first time in four days. She'd tried to make a dent in her 139 unread work emails in the car, but staring at the small phone screen had made her nauseated. Now she cleared half of the lot in an hour. But those were only the easy, "FYI" messages, and her recurring aches kept her from focusing much longer. Deciding the remainder would need to wait until tomorrow, Ali took some pills and went to bed.

Invigorated by the thought of getting back to her old routine, on Wednesday she was one of the first people in the Midtown office. Arriving early also helped her avoid the more curious looks and awkward quips about why she was wearing oversized sunglasses inside.

Because not even Estée Lauder makes foundation substantial enough to cover my shiner, Ali thought as she grimaced at the junior account manager who'd made the latest comment while she snuck into the ladies' room.