“It’ll smear!” she shouts, interrupting the evenings of the campers around us. Her lollipop falls to the ground outside the hot tub. “Look what you made me do!”
“You don’t need makeup. Besides, what does it matter to ya? Got a hot date with Johnston tonight?” I step closer. Her breath hitches. Man, I love exploring what I’m capable of doing to this woman now that I’ve set my mind to making her mine. But what is she doing to me? I can’t think straight.
I try to catch her hands, but pull back as she shoves more water in my direction. I take it like a man, tryingveryhard not to think of the microbes, and push forward. She stands up abruptly following the water assault, then she turns and scrambles to flee the tub.
Not on my watch, babe.
Whoa, where did that thought come from? Am I a “babe” dude now?
I wrap my hands around her waist, yanking her back into the hot tub. Except I didn’t think this all the way through because the feel of my hands on her bare skin is short-circuiting my brain. My legs forget to hold strong, and she falls on top of me, shoving me into the germ-infested water—my mouth wide open.
Now I’m really going to vomit.
And I do, half in the hot tub, half over the side, in my attempt to get out.
Chapter Eight
Hadley
Ididn’tplantobabysit a sick man on this road trip. Why do men act like the world is ending when they have a stomach bug? I’ve had plenty of viruses growing up. I even had to take care of my mama when she was too drunk to function, which often mirrored a stomach virus.
Taking care of Drunk Mom wasn’t as bad as taking care of Sick Braxton. I pour a glass of Powerade in preparation for the next time he wakes up.
“Hadley,” Braxton slurs from the couch as if my thought alone summoned him awake. “Can I have more Pepto yet?”
I check the time on my smartwatch, noting it’s only been two hours since his last dose.
And it’s almost midnight.
“Not quite yet. Two more hours,” I say as I walk to the edge of the couch with a glass of blue Powerade—his favorite.
Braxton groans.
“Take a sip.” I rub my fingers gently across his cheek, admiring his handsome face. One good thing coming out of this Sick Braxton experience is his new attitude. Gone is the man who controlled himself. In his place is a needy man who can’t seem to be detached from me for more than a second. The neediness, though childlike and exhausting, makes me feel warm inside. I like that Braxtonneedsme. Black scruff prickles my fingers as I continue to graze his cheek.
“Open your eyes and take a sip,” I repeat. “We gotta keep you hydrated.”
He doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he nuzzles his cheek into the palm of my hand. Do I wish he would stay sick forever so that he would continue to need me? Yes, I do. And I’m unashamed.
But the man needs to hydrate.
I pull my hand away, and THEN his eyes open.
“Come back,” he whimpers, turning his usually tan but now pale face towards me. I melt a little. Okay, a lot.
“Only if you start sipping on this Powerade.” I never thought I’d have to withhold my presence from a man to get him to do something so small. I release a chuckle as I tilt the glass to Braxton’s lips, his head meeting me halfway.
Even though he is sick, slightly smelly, and I’ve heard way too many sounds I never wanted to hear coming from him, I still can’t get over how kissable his lips look.
I’m jealous of a dang glass.
“Okay, ‘nough drink.” Braxton sighs, grabbing my free hand that was just on his cheek earlier and pulling me on the couch to be his little spoon. “Come here.” Thankfully, I had already set the glass down on the coffee table. He wraps his muscular arms around me, holding me quite tightly for a man weakened by sickness.
I wrinkle my nose at the scent of his sickly sweat and decide it’s best to breathe out my mouth for a little while.
Because let’s be honest, regardless of how he smells right now, I am very happy to be caged in his arms as he rubs his stubbly cheek against my head. Braxton feels like home. One that needs a good cleaning, but still home.
“Bully, you’re my person,” he mumbles, on the verge of sleep.
