She blinks at the subject change. “I don’t know. Breakfast? Maybe?”
“Maybe?”
“I had a protein bar around ten.”
“Expired protein bar,” I correct, remembering the contents of her pockets exploding across my floor. “That doesn’t count. You need actual food.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’renotfine. You’re hypothermic and exhausted and running on fumes.” I head back toward the kitchen because standing here watching her pretend she’s okay is pissing me off more than it should. “I’ll make something.”
“You don’t have to--”
“IknowI don’t have to.” The words come out sharper than intended. “But you’re sitting in my house wearing my clothes and if you collapse from low blood sugar on top of everything else, that’s going to be a real pain in the ass to deal with.”
Fucking nicely done, Gregory.
Really rolling out the welcome wagon there.
I do my best not to huff out of the room, and literally yank open the refrigerator, which is still running on generator power but for how long is anyone’s guess. Vin stocked it before he left, and there’s enough food here to feed a small army. Steaks, chicken, fresh vegetables, cheese, eggs. The works.
The freezer’s even more impressive. Vin always overpreps, convinced I’ll starve without him. The man treats me like I’m completely helpless in a kitchen.
He’s not entirely wrong.
I pull out ingredients for something simple. Pasta. Even I can’t fuck up pasta. Probably.
Behind me in the great room, I hear her try to stand up. There’s a soft sound, something between a gasp and a whimper. Then the thud of her sitting back down. Hard.
I turn around. Through the connecting door, I see her gripping the arm of the sectional like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her face has gone from flushed to pale in the span of seconds.
“I’m fine,” she says again, but her voice is weaker now.
“Stop saying you’re fine.” I abandon the pasta ingredients and cross back to her. Up close, I can see she’s not just pale. She’s sweating despite still shivering. Her pupils are dilated.
I press the back of my hand to her forehead. She’s burning up.
Shit.
“You have a fever.” It’s not a question.
“No, I’m just warm from the fire.” But she can’t quite meet my eyes when she says it.
“Don’t bullshit me.” I pull back, already running through worst-case scenarios. Hypothermia can cause all kinds of complications. Immune system crash. Pneumonia. A dozenother things I should probably know more about but don’t because I’ve never had to take care of anyone but myself.
And right now, my satellite internet is down, my phones don’t work, and I’m stuck with a sick woman who needs medical attention I can’t provide.
Perfect. This is absolutely fucking perfect.
“When did you start feeling off?” I ask, forcing my voice into something calmer, more clinical.
“I don’t know. An hour ago? I thought it was just the adrenaline wearing off.” She’s still trying to downplay it. Still trying to be fine.
“I can stand, really,” she says. “I here look--” She tries to prove it, starts pushing herself up from the sectional. She makes it about halfway before her legs buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor. One arm around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder. She’s lighter than I expected. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.
She smells like soap and woodsmoke and something underneath... something that’s justher.
