Something warm...
And alive...
And far too close...
Fuck! Don’t go there. She needs help.
“Okay,” she admits against my chest. “Maybe I can’t stand.”
“No shit.” I adjust my grip, trying to figure out the least awkward way to do this. There isn’t one. “I’m taking you upstairs.”
“I can walk.”
“You literally just proved you can’t.”
Before she can argue further, I scoop her up. One arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She weighs almost nothing to me. Not surprising, I suppose, given the time I spend in the gym.
She makes a surprised sound, her arms automatically going around my neck for stability. “This is really not necessary.”
“Noted.” I head toward the stairs.
“I’m perfectly capable of--”
“You’re perfectly capable of passing out and cracking your skull open on my expensive floors. I’d rather avoid the lawsuit.”
She falls quiet after that, which is probably smart. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, too fast. Too irregular.
The fever must be worse than I thought.
I take her to the best guest suite. The one with the softest sheets and the best view. The one I put visiting board members in when I’m trying to impress them.
I set her down on the bed as gently as possible. She immediately tries to sit up.
“Stay.” I push her back down with one hand on her shoulder. “Rest. I’ll bring you food and water.”
“You don’t have to--”
“We’ve established that I don’t have to do anything already,” I interrupt. “But I’m doing it anyway. Deal with it.”
She stares up at me with those warm brown eyes, trying to figure me out.
Good luck.
I haven’t figured myself out in thirty-eight years.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For letting me in. And for... for not being the serial killer I thought you might be.”
“Night’s still young,” I reply, and her laugh is weak but real.
I leave before she can see how much that laugh affects me. Before she can see how much I don’t want to close this door and walk away.
She hasn’t even told me her name.
In the hallway, I check my watch. Five-thirty. The storm’s not letting up. If anything, it’s gotten worse. I can hear the wind howling, rattling the windows in their frames.
One night, I tell myself. She’ll be here one night, maybe two at most. Then the storm will clear, the roads will open, and she’ll leave. Back to her research and her roommates and her life spent cleaning up messes that people like me create.
And I’ll go back to my isolation. Back to refreshing news articles about my company’s environmental crimes. Back to pretending I don’t care that I’ve become exactly what my father always feared I’d become.
