His eyebrows tug together as he looks me over. “Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be walking around.”
He’s the one who insisted on seeing me in this degrading state, but saying that would be rude.
His mouth takes on the softest curve. “I would deserve it, too.”
Oh. I guess I said that out loud. Might be feeling worse than I realized.
“Come on.” He lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing. I shiver at his touch, but it’s the feverish kind of chills, not the fun kind. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”
“My skin hurts.” I lay my head on his shoulder, my arms around his neck. “I feel like I’ve been pummeled by Bigfoot.”
“You’re burning up. We’ll take care of that.” He takes a step into the living room, nudging the door closed behind him with his foot. “Do you want to be in the living room or bedroom?”
I press my face against his shirt. He smells so good. Ocean Deity or whatever crisp thing they think a waterfall smells like. “Couch is easiest.”
He huffs a breath, not leaving the entryway. “Would you be more comfortable in your bed?”
So demanding, this one. “Yes. But you can’t carry me up the stairs.”
A laugh rumbles through his chest, tickling my ear. “That hurts, firefly.”
The man carries me straight up the stairs without a single wheeze or groan. It’s pretty impressive, even in my semi-lucid state. In my bedroom, he gently arranges me on my bed I leftunmade when I dragged myself downstairs this morning. He pulls the sheet over me, but I kick my legs back out.
When was the last time I shaved them? Can’t remember. Don’t care.
“Too hot.”
“Where’s your medicine? You need something to bring your fever down.”
I nod over his shoulder and regret it when my neck muscles protest. “In the bathroom cupboard.”
He disappears for a minute, clomps down the stairs and back up again, returning with some Tylenol and a glass of water. I take the pills he offers and sink back down on the pillows.
“I peeked through your cupboards.” He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand resting over mine. “I can make you chicken soup. Or a stir fry, if that doesn’t sound good.”
“I don’t want you to have to do anything.” This is already bad enough. Having him cook for me and tend me? So embarrassing.
But…I bet it’d be the comforting kind of embarrassing.
He leans closer, brushing my sweaty hair from my face. I really shouldn’t have let him come over. This can’t be a good look. I’m full-on gross, and he’s looking like every coffee shop girl’s dream. Maybe just mine?
No. Probably not just mine.
“Sweetheart,” he says low, “we’re going to have a talk about this when you’re feeling better, but for now, I need you to tell me what you feel like eating.”
He pins me with his stern brown eyes, silently waiting. I’ve been told a thousand times I shouldn’t make demands. I need to be agreeable. But how am I supposed to resist when he’s demanding I demand things?
My brain’s not handling the fever so well.
“Chicken soup sounds good.”
He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Then, he leans in and kisses my forehead. “Try to rest. Call me if you need anything.”
He leaves my room, and I’m ninety-five percent convinced I’mdelirious. Reed Bridger just smiled at me? And called me his girl?Andgave me a forehead kiss? If it’s a hallucination, it’s a good one.
I drift in and out of uncomfortable sleep before he returns with two bowls of soup and two glasses of water on a tray. I can’t tell anymore if the urge to break down in tears is because everything from my toenails to my eyelashes hurts, or because Reed is the sweetest man in the world.
It might be that one.