I shut the door to Chad’s room as softly as possible and stand in the hallway to think for a moment.
Chad trusted me so much with that confession. That’s why the one thing spinning around in my brain right now is ridiculous. Because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Chad Harrell was not wearing a shirt.
I don’t think he realized it. He’s clearly in immense pain, he hasn’t taken anything for it, he’s on the verge of a panic attack just thinking about medications, and he’s also probably concerned for his daughters.
His state of undress is probably far down the list of things he’s worried about.
Let me tell you, there was just enough light for me to see that Chad Harrell is in very good shape and he definitely works out, and I should be ashamed for how many times I had to force my gaze away from his chest.
Luckily, his eyes were closed most of the time.
I swipe a hand across my forehead. “Pull it together, Ivy.” I haveneverallowed myself to think about a client that way, and just because Chad is my friend doesn’t mean it’s okay to blur that line when he’s trusting me to help.
And not dating for the past six months doesn’t mean it’s okay to ogle someone who’s in physical pain and sharing something very vulnerable with me.
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the picture of him sitting there in sweats, his dark hair sticking up on one side of his head. I scurry across the hall to my room and open the door as silently as possible. Law booked our rooms for this trip, so we’re all next to each other.
I keep the light off, and the girls don’t stir as I find my travel first aid kit. I’m going to take the whole thing over there. If I can talk him into it, he needs at least four ibuprofen. I grab a Coke from the mini fridge as I leave. If he’s still nauseated, he might not be able to stomach it, but the caffeine will help.
I tiptoe to the girls’ bed to check on them. They’re both still sleeping soundly.
I slip into the hall and close the door. I listen for a second to make sure I didn’t wake the girls up when I left the room and then steel myself for being totally professional with someone who’s half dressed. It’s not his fault he can’t think straight. What’s my excuse?
When I come back in, a lamp in the main room of the suite has been turned on low, casting a soft glow through the room. Chad is still in his bedroom, sitting in bed and propped up against some pillows, his eyes closed.
He put on a shirt.
My cheeks flame. He realized he was shirtless. Does that mean he knows I was staring at him while we talked?
I keep calm. That’s irrational. I’m making up scenarios with no evidence. Now is not the time to abandon all my life-coach training.
“Hey, I checked on the girls,” I let him know. “Still sleeping soundly.”
“You don’t have to take care of them for me,” he says in a strained voice. “I did okay all day.”
Letting his migraine go untreated and then following tworambunctious little girls around is probably the reason this migraine keeps on going rather than fading away. “I know, but we’re friends and I want to help you.”
“Bet you didn’t come on vacation to be a babysitter.”
I chuckle—softly. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
He cringes. “Weren’t you supposed to go to dinner with Law tonight?”
I shrug it off. Law met me at a burger place after he was done with his practice, and we hung out with the girls. I didn’t get to spend time with him one on one, but being with the girls was fun.
“I think you’re avoiding what you don’t want to do—which is fair and a normal reaction.” I drop down into the chair I was sitting in earlier and try not to think about the fact that the lamp is throwing more light into the room than the clock was and if Chad was still shirtless, I’d get a much better view.
I think I need to go watch a Marvel superhero movie after this; then maybe I can stop thinking of Chad as a thirst trap when he’s super sick.
“So,” I go on, glad that at least it’s dim enough that he can’t see how red my cheeks must be, “I have both ibuprofen and acetaminophen. What’s the next thing you can do? Do you think you can choose which one you want to take?” Normally when I’m working with clients to help them conquer something that’s triggering fear like Chad’s, we take weeks on these baby steps. Chad could probably wait this out and hope the migraine goes away or at least fades by tomorrow, but I know he wants to celebrate Christmas with his girls, so I’m going to help him tackle this if I can.
“We could move the girls over here to their room. They’d probably stay asleep,” Chad says.
I’ll let him stall as much as he wants. If this takes longer than a few minutes, I’ll have to go check on the girls again, but Chad knows that. He’s their dad. He’ll take it into account.
“We?” I tease gently. “Only if you take something.” I keep my voice light.
He blows out a breath. “Ibuprofen.”
