He frowns and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, but I’m not about to complain. Even if the cedarwood scent of his cologne is nausea inducing at the moment.
Miles presses a hand to my sweaty forehead, and I know I should bat it away, but again, it’s too much effort. If he wants to touch my sweat-slick skin, that’s on him.
“You’re burning up.”
Don’t I know it.
He stands and moves to the sink. I watch as he runs cold water over a hand towel and folds it into a neat rectangle. He returns to the bed and lays the damp cloth across my forehead.
It feels amazing, and I smile up at him. Or, at least, I think I do.
“The towel should help,” he says, brushing my hair back from my face. “I’ll refresh it every half hour, but you should try to get some rest.”
“Not tired.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Stubborn even when you’re sick. Why am I not surprised?”
“My brand is pretty consistent.”
He chuckles, and the mattress shakes beneath me.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “For everything.”
If someone had told me three weeks ago that Miles Hart would hold my hair back while I puked, I’d have called them a lying liar.
Scratch that. I’d have called them a delusional lying liar.
“Don’t mention it.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “It’s the least I can do. If I hadn’t dragged you to Redd’s, we’d be halfway to Needles and you wouldn’t be sick.”
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you sick? We ate the same exact thing.”
“I’ve got an iron stomach.” He flashes me a wry grin. “You should’ve seen some of the shit I ate as a kid.”
Hard pass.
My stomach is already in revolt.
“I guess that explains your expert skill at dealing with projectile vomiting.”
“Now you’re giving me too much credit. Everything I know, I learned from Mama Hart. With three boys, she dealt with her share of broken bones and stomach bugs.”
I can imagine.
Still, having someone to dote on you when you’re sick doesn’t necessarily translate to being a good caretaker yourself. That’s a skill honed from caring and compassion. Two traits Miles has clearly worked hard to keep hidden.
Not that I blame him.
In his shoes, I’d probably do the same.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“There’s a scary thought.”
“Oh, you’ve got jokes now?” He smirks. “I’m going to assume that’s a sign you’re well on your way to recovery.”
I attempt a shrug. “You know what they say about assuming.”
“Yeah, yeah. Always the smartass.” He cocks his head, dirty-blond hair flopping down over his forehead, and even though I’m on death’s door, my stupid heart does a happy little flip-flop. “As I was saying, what do you think about extending our trip to visit Joshua Tree National Park? It’s practically on the way to San Bernardino, just a few hours north of Barstow. We could do some hiking. And you’d get killer pics for So Savvy Traveler.”
