Page 7 of At His Beck & Call

“Yes.”

“We have Henry here. He’s not feeling well today; would it be possible for you to come and pick him up?”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk as angry New Yorkers push past me in every direction.

“He threw up.”

Nausea rises in my throat as I think of Henry alone at school, sick and not understanding why. I check the time. If I head straight from the office, I could be at the school in about fifteen minutes.

“I’m on my way. Would you be able to give him some water and let him know I’m coming?” Dread trickles down my spine as another thought occurs to me. “Did you call his father?”

“No, Mrs. Davenport. We have a note in his file to always contact you first.”

“Thank you, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up, forgetting the food I had been on my way to buy, and instead, head straight back to the office. But as soon as I walk through the doors and into the reception area, I know I should have called instead of coming back in person.

Maria is behind the desk, a phone beneath one ear, and a line of patients waiting to be seen in front of her.

“Oh, thank God,” Maria mutters the second she sees me. “Could you deal with this gentleman’s bill?” she asks distractedly, then begins speaking into the phone.

But my thoughts are only on my son. I don’t care about any of these people, I just need to get to Henry and check if he’s alright.

“I’m really sorry,” I say genuinely, as I hurry to grab my scarf from the coat rack. “I have to go. Henry’s sick.”

“What?” comes a shrill voice.

I freeze as my fingers curl around the thin fabric of my scarf, turning slowly in place as Francesca Charvez, our boss and headof the practice, steps out from behind the reception desk. I hadn’t even noticed her.

Shit.

“You’re leavingagain?” she asks, her forehead creased in irritation.

Francesca is a wiry woman, tall and spindly with slicked-back brown hair in a tight ponytail, a long, pointed nose, a wide mouth, and small, beady eyes that narrow as she looks at me accusingly.

“I… I’m sorry, Francesca, but Henry’s sick.”

“I understand that, but you can’t leave early again. This is the third time this month.”

That’s not true. I haven’t left early for weeks, the last time in late January, but I don’t correct her. I know there’s no point.

“I’m sorry, I have to?—”

She holds up a hand. “Can’t you see how busy we are? We rely on you, Lissa, and thereissuch a thing as coparenting. As a mother, I know you must feel it’s your duty to deal with your son’s every need, but I think, just this once, his father can step in and take care of this, don’t you?”

I stare at her, my brain swirling. She knows nothing about my marriage to James or the protective order I have against him.

I shake my head helplessly, the line of patients staring at me.

“I have to go get him; he’s sick to his stomach.”

Francesca’s eyes harden, and the look of triumph on her face is enough for me to know that this was a test, and I failed it.

“I see. Well then, I’m sorry to inform you, Lissa, that if you aren’t able to fulfill your duties at this practice, you will need to find another job. I can’t have my office staff walking out every other day, no matter what the family circumstances are.”

“Francesca, please—” I attempt, my heart thudding.

“Either you go back to your desk and find another way to deal with the issues at your son’s school, or you’re fired.”