He narrows his eyes. “And you’re very stubborn when you should be resting.”
I shrug. “Pot, kettle.”
His mouth quirks in something almost like a smile. “Fair.”
I lean back against the pillows. “Thank you. For the soup and the bossiness and... everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he insists.
“Oh I know.” I smile. “But I am anyway.”
We look at each other across the small space of the villa. The air between us suddenly feels charged.
God, why couldn’t I wake up to him licking my—
Stop!
This is dangerous territory.
You’re vulnerable, he’s being kind, and your defenses are down because fever has apparently killed all your brain cells.
Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
Actually, it’sdefinitelya bad thing.
“Why did you work all weekend?” he asks quietly.
I could lie.Shouldlie. Instead I hear myself say, “Because I don’t know how to stop. If I stop working, I start thinking. And if I start thinking, I start remembering. And I really don’t want to remember.”
The words hang in the air between us.
His expression finally softens. “Remember...what?”
“All the reasons this is a terrible idea,” I explain. “Working with you. Being here. Any of it.”
He’s quiet for a time. Then he says, “For what it’s worth, I think about those reasons, too. Every day. Every time I see you.”
My heart catches.
“And yet here you are,” I whisper. “Taking care of me.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Here I am.”
Neither of us looks away.
Finally he stands. “Well, I should go. Let you rest up.”
Part of me wants to tell him to stay. The fever-addled, vulnerable part that’s tired of being strong all the time.
But the lawyer part, the part that’s kept me functional for five years, wins out.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Thanks. Good night.”
“Night.” He moves to the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “Text me if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what time.”
“I will.”
Another lie. We both know I won’t.
