“Yeah.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held the button down and glided the roller along his forehead. Pulling my hand back, I read, “A hundred and two point four. We should get some Tylenol in you.”
He motioned to his now empty cup. “I can’t keep anything down yet.”
I nodded. “Okay.” Rising, I fetched a washcloth from the bathroom and ran it under cold water. It would do until the ice packs were chilled enough. Sitting on the bed again, I positioned the cloth on his forehead. Moving away, I gasped when he grabbed hold of my wrist. Even sick, his grip was strong.
His blue eyes drilled into me. “Why are you doing this?”
I shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
He shook his head once like that wasn’t good enough. “Why are you here?”
His fingers shifted, the tips sending hot little sparks up my arm. He should look ridiculous with the blue washcloth covering half his face, but he didn’t. He looked human and male and all too vulnerable right then.
“Because you need someone.”
It was the simple truth, but the words hung between us, and I realized they sounded like so much more than I intended them to be. His fingers slid from my wrist, and he expelled a heavy breath—like he suddenly remembered that he was sick and couldn’t deal with this—with me—right now. His eyes drifted shut again. Almost instantly, he was asleep.
Yeah, sorry to give such short notice, but I can’t leave her alone. She’s too sick.” I paused and listened as Beckie commiserated and assured me it was okay. “Thanks for understanding. I’ll see you Saturday.”
I hung up the phone on my manager, feeling a little bad about waiting until the last minute to make the call, but it had taken me the better part of two hours to decide that I couldn’t leave Reece alone. Or I wouldn’t. Either way, I had resigned myself to the role of nurse, even though he hadn’t asked it of me. Even though he didn’t want it of me.
“I’m guessing I’m the ‘she’ you were talking about?”
I swung around to meet Reece’s gaze head-on. “You’re awake.”
He pressed down on the mattress and lifted himself up on the bed, propping his back against the pillows bunched up at the headboard. “How long was I asleep?”
“Almost two hours.”
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “And I didn’t get sick. That’s good. Maybe I can try that drink now.” He glanced to his left and, seeing that the empty glass was gone (I had since washed it), swung his legs over the side.
“No. Don’t get up.” I hurried into the kitchen, poured him a small glass of Gatorade, and shook out two caplets of Tylenol.
When I returned he took the pills from me and set them on his tongue, chasing them with a cautious sip. “Thanks.” He set the glass down on the nightstand. “You really don’t have to miss work for me.”
“Too late. Besides”—I motioned to his kitchen table where my books were spread out—“I got some studying done.” I had retrieved my backpack from my car after he fell asleep.
Nodding, he eased up onto his feet, instantly towering over me.
I held out a hand as though to steady him, even though all that bare inked skin made my pulse jump a little, made me remember the other night. Both nights. Here and in my dorm. They seemed more like a dream now than real. My body tangled up with his—all lean lines, hard angles, and curving muscles. His hands touching me in places no one had before. My gaze skimmed over his body. And there was that dangerous edge to him with half his torso inked up. Like he belonged in a prison yard lifting weights with other convicts. Not with me.
I lowered my hand from where it hovered over his bicep and moistened my dry lips. “What are you doing? You should stay in bed.” On your back. Weak and sick and far less intimidating.
His mouth lifted into a half-grin. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be okay, Mom.”
I blushed. I did tend to be motherly. Emerson and Georgia always said so. Ironic considering I never had that kind of mother. But when you grew up in a community where people, including your own guardian, were often sick, it went with the territory.
I watched as he moved toward the bathroom, the light play of muscles beneath the golden skin of his back mesmerizing me. His strides were much less swift and sure than normal. At the bathroom door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “You can stay. If you want to.” He glanced back at the table where all my books were spread out. “Study here.”
I nodded, my heart doing a crazy little flip. He turned back around and closed himself in the bathroom. The sound of the shower soon hummed through the door.
My heart still felt foolishly light as I found fresh sheets in a chest near the bed. Stripping off his old sheets and replacing them with his new ones, I was plumping his pillows when he emerged from the shower ten minutes later. He paused, scrubbing a towel over his head. “You changed my sheets?”
I rose to face him and had to fight a smile. He looked almost confused.
“You were sick . . . thought you might like fresh sheets.”
He stared at me solemnly. Like he was trying to figure me out. My smile faded. Because that would never happen. I could never let it happen. God, first I’d have to figure myself out, and that was a constant struggle.
Just when I thought I knew what I wanted in life and who I was, I’d get a call from Gram depressed about Daddy. She’d talk about how everything went to hell when he married my mother. How he should have married Frankie Mazzerelli, his high school sweetheart, who was now married to a pharmacist and had four kids. And if it wasn’t Gram, I’d have one of my nightmares, and it would be like I was ten all over again, hiding in the shadows and praying for an invisibility cloak. That had been my fantasy. Other little girls dream of castles. I dreamed for invisibility.
I didn’t know anything then, and I was still trying to figure myself out. So far I’d changed my major three times, finally settling on psychology. Like becoming a therapist and helping others with their problems might somehow help me work my way through mine.
There was only one irrefutable truth in my life. Only one thing I knew. Hunter was good. Hunter was normal. And I wanted that. Correction: Him. I wanted him. That I knew. That was the plan.
“Thanks,” he said. “For doing this. Being here.”
“Want to try and eat something?” I moved into the kitchen. “I got chicken noodle soup. Jell-O. Crackers.”
“I might be ready for a little Jell-O.”
I removed one of the small cups from the fridge and handed it to him. He opened a drawer and selected a spoon. Leaning against the counter, he studied me. “Did you eat already?”
“I grabbed a late lunch and snacked on some crackers while you slept. I’m fine.”
He peeled the foil lid off the cup. “They could make you something downstairs. It’s wing night.”
“That’s okay.”
He spooned a small bite of strawberry Jell-O into his mouth. The muscles in his jaw feathered as he moved it around, savoring it slowly.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again. Why’d you come?” he asked as he focused on spooning another bite.
I couldn’t see his face to properly judge his thoughts, but I thought he sounded almost relieved that I had proved him wrong. Was he glad I was here?
“After what you said that night, I’m not surprised you thought that.”
He looked up then, his gaze cutting deep. “So why are you here?”
At least he didn’t pretend not to understand my reference. “What did you mean, you put your father in a wheelchair?”
“Just what I said.”
“So you . . . hurt him? Deliberately?”
His lips twisted into a harsh smile. “You want me to make it sound less wrong. You want me to tell you I’m something else. Something that isn’t broken. Is that it, Pepper?” He shook his head and tossed the empty plastic cup into the garbage can. “I’m not going to lie to you and convince you that I’m someone good and shiny like your guy that’s going to be a doctor.”
He pushed off from the counter and moved toward the bed again.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Yes, you are. I can see it in the way you’re looking at me with those big green eyes.”
My hands knotted into fists at my sides. “I just want to know the truth.”
“What does it matter?” he said over his shoulder as he pulled back the covers on the bed. “We don’t need to be sharing each other’s life stories. We don’t need to know any truths about each other. What we’re doing together doesn’t need to be complicated.”
I blinked as his words washed over me. He was right, of course. I didn’t need to know who he was.
“Would you kill the light?” he asked, sighing as he crawled back into bed.
“You’re going to sleep.”
“I’m still wiped. So. Yeah.” He lifted his head. “Are you staying?”
I glanced from him to the table with my stuff spread out. “I think I’ll go.”
He held my gaze for a long moment before nodding once and dropping his head back down on the pillow. I started to gather my stuff up when his voice stopped me.
“Or you can stay. Whatever you want to do.”
Did he want me to stay? It almost sounded like he did. I hovered, unsure. Gradually, I set my books back down on the table and moved toward the bed. Kicking off my shoes, I climbed in beside him.
I eased toward him. His body radiated heat in the bed. I relaxed, inching closer, burrowing the tip of my nose against his back, savoring the clean smell of his skin, fresh from the shower.
His voice rumbled through his back toward me. “Hey, your nose is cold.”
I grinned against his skin. “How about my feet?” I wedged them between his calves.
He hissed. “Get some socks on, woman.”
I laughed lightly. “You’re feverish. Maybe it helps.”
Rolling over onto his side, he faced me. His bright eyes seared me, probably sending my temperature soaring, too. His hand found my arm, fingers stroking up and down leisurely. Seductively. Even sick, he was seducing me. He probably didn’t even realize it. It’s just what he did. Who he was. How he affected me.
His eyes drifted shut. Without opening them, he murmured, “I like the sound of your laugh. It’s real and genuine. A lot of girls have this fake laugh. Not you.”
“I like your laugh, too,” I whispered, feeling pulled in, cozy in the cocoon of his bed.
“Yeah?”
I flattened my palm over his chest, enjoying the sensation of the firm flesh, even warm as it was. He sighed, like my cool hand offered him some relief.
“I laugh more since you came around,” he said quietly, his lips barely forming the words.
He did? I frowned. He must not have laughed at all before, then, because I didn’t think he was particularly jovial.
I held him through the night. And he held me back, tucking my head beneath his chin.. His arms surrounded me and kept me close to his overly warm body. Almost like I was some kind of lifeline. I felt the moment his fever broke around one in the morning. Confident that he was on the mend, I finally relaxed and fell asleep.
Chapter 17
The remnants of Halloween were in full evidence as I carefully maneuvered down the hall toward my room, stepping around orange and black Silly String. I could already imagine the look on Heather’s face when she woke up. Our RA would probably call a special floor meeting over this. I sighed, not looking forward to it.
Speaking of Heather. I was four doors from my room when a guy suddenly slipped out of her room. Holding his shoes in one hand, he closed the door carefully, like he didn’t want to make a sound. As he turned, we came face-to-face. I blinked up at him. “Er, Logan?”