Catch a Falling Star (22 page)

She rubbed her cheek along the soft fabric, chewing on her bottom lip. Heath all but said he was falling in love with her. Her—Kendall Haynes. The girl-now-thirty-six-year-old-woman who spent most of her life waiting.

Her fingers worked the weave of the material. No, that wasn't right. She'd done things with her life. Pursued her dreams. Accomplished some, if not all of them. Her dream of having it all
was mostly accomplished . . . but a woman couldn't put a ring on her own finger, couldn't force the “I do.”

Although she'd considered it more than once.

But Kendall refused to settle.

And at least one man had been more than willing to let her know that marrying her would have been just that: settling. And then there were the Christian guys who played the faith card—who knew the right things to say, the right things to do—and then insisted that sleeping together somehow was right, even good.
Expected.
Everyone did it.

Well, everyone might be doing it.

But Kendall had managed not to tumble into bed with a guy. Her dream was to still be pure on her wedding night. Although Heath Parker would present some enticement to think otherwise. Surely if they talked things out like two mature adults, he would agree with her. Right?

Kendall pulled her car behind her combo office/home. She was being silly. Two kisses and she was worrying that Heath might want to sleep with her. Although those were some rock-your-world kisses. She gripped the steering wheel and stared out into the night. If nothing else, he made it clear that, unlike Griffin Walker, he didn't see her as just a friend. A brief image of Leslie Meyer's glare broke through Kendall's thoughts. The woman disliked her—but why? Maybe she was interested in Heath? Not surprising.

Not her problem—unless Heath asked her to join the board. Then she'd maintain a professional demeanor and distance with the woman. And no matter what, she'd take her relationship with Heath slowly and make the right choices, trusting Heath. Trusting he wanted to make the right choices, too.

G
riffin lay in his bed, forcing himself not to move. If he did nothing more than breathe . . . barely . . . then maybe the world would stay upright. Since three o'clock in the morning it was as if someone strapped him to a giant carnival Tilt-A-Whirl and spun him out of control. But if he waited . . . another minute or two . . . or ten, surely the vertigo would stop.

What time was it? Did he dare risk a look at the alarm clock on his bedside table? That would require turning his head to the left. And that much movement would give his room permission to pitch and roll as if he were on his own torturous journey to the Land of Oz.

Was Ian awake? Most days, the teen slept until either hunger or Griffin's insistent demands pulled him out of his bed. Of course, on a Saturday all bets were off. Maybe it was ten? Or eleven?

He had no idea.

The sheets and bedspread tangled around his legs and torso, his flannel pajama bottoms twisted around his legs. He tossed his T-shirt aside on his last trip to the bathroom—right before a bout of dry heaves.

No matter how much he fought vertigo—denied it, raged against it—it was an enemy he couldn't conquer. Eighteen months ago, the ailment tossed him out of the cockpit and to his knees. Doctors were no help, what with their “It should resolve over time” jargon.
Yeah, right.
Here he was, and yet another episode assaulted him in the middle of the night. The vertigo taunted him, receding, and then flaring up.

“Griffin?” His brother knocked at his bedroom door before opening it partway and poking his head inside. “You awake?”

Griffin hoped he could talk without moving his head. “Yeah . . . I'm up.”

That hadn't been too bad. Just a little rocking of the USS
Vertigo.

“Whoa. You look awful.”

With his eyes still closed, Griffin heard Ian walk over to his bed. No need to push his luck by looking at his brother.

“You sick?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a bit.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

He wanted to ask Ian if he had a magical cure for vertigo. Pixie dust, maybe. Or a genie in a bottle.

“Nope. I'm good.”

“You look like a cadaver.”

Even the weak chuckle that escaped tilted Griffin's world. “Since when have you seen a cadaver?”

“NCIS.”
From the sound of his voice, Ian still stood nearby. “You want something to drink? Mountain Dew? Coffee? I could probably figure out the coffeemaker.”

Griffin risked running his hand over his face. “No coffee, unless you bring a bucket along with you for the mess I make after I drink it. How about a bottle of water?”

“Okay. Be right back.”

His brother beat a hasty retreat, probably afraid Griffin would toss his cookies before Ian escaped. Not that Griffin had anything left in his stomach.

He needed to see if things had improved at all in the last half hour. He opened his eyes, thankful when the room stayed upright. Maybe the episode was finally abating. Next test was to turn his head to the left. Slowly. So far, so good. Now to raise his head off the pillow—well, really, his mattress. He'd thrown his pillows off the bed in a fit of frustration. One was in the corner, another behind his door.

With every inch that he raised his head, the feeling of pressure, of the room beginning to sway, increased. Griffin gritted his teeth. He hadn't experienced a full-blown episode in weeks—months—and now he was flat on his back again. And the medical board was meeting the end of May to review his case. How was he going to get reinstated to fly if they knew he still dealt with everything from mild dizziness to out-of-control vertigo?

The board would permanently disqualify him.

Time to sit up.

With one swift motion, Griffin grabbed a fistful of blankets, shoving them away so he could swing his legs over the bed and right himself.

And the world went end-over-end as if he'd programmed it to do a barrel roll.

He knew that, in reality, nothing moved. The dresser and chair stayed upright. The floor remained the floor, the ceiling the ceiling, rather than tumbling over and over as if someone
flipped a switch and sent his room on a permanent spin. But reality or not, what he saw was a visual tornado of everything—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the dresser—tumbling around him.

Big mistake.

Eyes squeezed shut against the nightmarish optical illusion, he heard Ian enter his room again.

Griffin sucked in a breath. “Help me up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Help me up . . . or I'm puking right here.”

His brother dropped the open bottle of water, dousing Griffin with a cold spray. Then he grabbed Griffin's forearms and pulled him to his feet, helping him stagger to the bathroom. Griffin gripped the side of the doorway, holding himself upright.

“I can take it from here—”

“Really?”

“Believe me, you don't wanna stay . . .”

He heard Ian retreat even as he stumbled across the cold tile floor and hit his knees in front of the toilet, his palms and knees slamming against the floor. Some things a guy had to deal with on his own. What was the kid going to do, hold his hand? Tracey hadn't even stayed by his side when they were married and he came down with the flu.

Minutes later, Griffin realized he had two choices. He could lie down on his bathroom floor until the vertigo ceased. Or he could combat-crawl back to his bed. Right now, hunkering down on the cold tile and asking Ian to cover him with a towel sounded like the best option.

He wasn't one to give in to self-pity. He believed in taking care of himself, not asking anyone else to help him. That approach had gotten him through most things, including
four years at the Academy. After his divorce, he managed to convince everyone he was fine, happy to be single and free again, even as regret stalked him. And now dizziness—an invisible foe—forced him facedown on his bathroom floor. He'd ignored the symptoms. Tried to bluff his way through a medical exam after he stumbled and fell on the flight line after bringing his A-10 back to base. All his efforts got him was chained to a desk assignment at Schriever Air Force Base.

Ian nudging his leg pulled Griffin from his reverie. “I'm calling Dr. Kendall—”

“No, you aren't.” Griffin pushed himself to a sitting position and then groaned as the bathroom whirled around him.

“Like there's anything you can do about it.”

“Ian, don't call her.” With his head between his knees, Griffin spoke to the floor.

No response. Wasn't there some position that wouldn't cause everything to spin? So his brother called Kendall. All right, then. She would ask a few questions. Tell Ian to make sure Griffin kept up on his fluids. Let the kid call the good doctor.

He didn't care.

“Where is he?” Kendall handed Sully's leash to Ian. Why she brought the dog, she didn't know. It wasn't like she needed a chaperone to check on Griffin. If nothing else, the dog would keep Ian occupied while she was with his brother.

“Last time I was upstairs, he was in the bathroom trying to crawl back to bed.”

“Crawl back to . . .” Kendall dropped her leather satchel by
her feet, then kicked off her black wedge flip-flops decorated with faux rhinestones. “How long has he been like this?”

“He seemed fine last night. We watched
The Italian Job
and grilled steaks. I got up a couple of hours ago and that's when I found out he was sick. Do you think it's the flu?”

“I won't know until I see him. Where's his room?”

Ian pointed up the stairs. “His bedroom is the back one. Don't look in my room.”

She headed toward the stairs. “My brother's room was always a mess, too. Probably still is. Drove my mom crazy.”

“Yeah. My mom feels . . . felt the same way. She always told me that shutting my door wasn't what she meant when she told me to clean my room.”

Kendall wanted to go back and hug the teen, but right now she needed to take care of Griffin.

“What can I do, Dr. Kendall?” Ian stood by the couch, still wearing the baggy navy-blue sweatpants and T-shirt he probably slept in. Did he own any other kind of shirt?

“Take Sully for a quick walk around the block. He'll behave better if he's tired out. I'll come down and talk to you as soon as I figure everything out.”

Walking down the hallway, she couldn't help but notice again how barren the townhome was. No pictures on the wall. A quick glance into Ian's room confirmed the teen's admission: Clothes tossed everywhere. Textbooks spilled from his backpack. A computer laptop sat on his desk, which was covered with papers and magazines.

Not her problem.

She came to Griffin's bedroom, the door half open. “Griffin? It's Kendall. You decent?”

She waited for a few seconds before Griffin answered her, his voice muffled. “No. Go away.”

“Well, I'm a trained medical professional, so I don't care if you're decent or not. Ian's worried about you. And so am I. Ready or not, here I come.”

She only hoped Griffin lied when he said he wasn't decent.

She settled into her
Dr. Kendall Haynes
mind-set and pushed open the door, stepping into Griffin's bedroom. Just as Spartan as the rest of the house. White-beige carpet. A king-sized bed covered with a tangle of white sheets and a striped comforter in various shades of brown. A dresser of the same dark wood as the headboard, with Griffin's watch, his wallet, and a few receipts tossed on top. Walls still painted white. Basic brown curtains covering the windows. A quick scan of the room showed it was . . . empty.

Empty?

No Griffin in the bed.

Where was he? What had Ian said?
He's crawling back to bed.

Uh-oh.

She stepped around the foot of the bed, ignoring the temptation to straighten the sheets, and found Griffin sprawled on the floor. And decent.