“You’re my person, too, Brax.” My heart beats wildly, though I know it’s just the sickness talking on his end.Don’t let this go to your head, Hadley.
I hear soft snores coming from the giant who’s spooning me, and I determine I need a few more minutes to make sure he’s fast asleep. Just in case.
Right after the vomit incident in the hot tub (which I am thankful to high heaven I don’t have to clean up), I helped Braxton get back to our cabin. He beelined for the bathroom and hung out in there for a good thirty minutes before crashing on the couch. I got him settled, then took his truck out to buy a few things—Powerade, Pepto, crackers, and a thermometer—from a nearby grocery store. When I came back, he was in the bathroom again.
I took that opportunity to fluff out the pillows and throw a sheet onto the couch. He wobbled back into the living room with glazed eyes and only wearing boxers (sweet mercy, help me), and literally collapsed onto the couch.
I kept him up long enough to check his temperature to verify he did in fact have a fever, then I dosed him with Pepto I bought from the store and gave him ibuprofen from my purse. He’s been in and out for the past four hours.
And every time he’s awake, I’m summoned to his side.
Thankfully, the vomiting and dry-heaving stopped about an hour and a half ago. Hopefully, we are now in the safe zone.
His breath is even against my neck and the light snoring continues, so I wiggle my way out of his arms. I hope he is finished in the bathroom because I am in desperate need of a shower.
But the moment I slip out of his arms, I wish I could crawl back in. Where is this feeling coming from? Sure, my best friend is insanely attractive. He is the kindest, most gentle, caring man I know. But I’ve stopped my feelings in the past. Why can’t I do that again?
Because you’re tired of hiding it,my brain smugly answers.
It’s just the maternal instinct from taking care of a sick person,I counter.
Liar, liar, pants on fire,my brain taunts.
Why in the world am I having this stupid conversation with myself?
Someone check me into a mental hospital, please, because I’ve gone crazy. Maybe a shower will clear my head. And my hormones.
I grab my pajamas, ready to get out of my bathing suit. I threw on baggy
sweatpants and a t-shirt over my bikini to run to the store, and I never had time to change out of it between taking care of Braxton and contemplating if I should take him to a doctor. He vehemently opposed the doctor, so I’ve been playing nurse.
Ew, no. Not like that.
Not like I wouldn’t mind though…
My mind, having zero control over itself this late at night, replays the image of Braxton pulling his shirt over his head like that scene with Ryan Reynolds inThe Proposal. Apparently, my brain has a slow-motion feature because that’s how I recorded the moment by the hot tub.
I fan myself again, something I’ve been doing on and off for the last few hours as Braxton flirted shamelessly with me in his needy state. I hop in the shower.
The shower does nothing but make me hotter. I quickly wash my hair and body in what has to be the quickest shower I’ve ever taken. I even turn the hot water down to a lukewarm level, but my body still refused to cool off.
The simple knowledge of Braxton sleeping twelve stairs down and seven paces out has my brain on high alert.
Yes, I counted when we first arrived at the cabin.
I needed to make sure I didn’t stub my toe or trip if I had to run down the stairs to get him in case of an emergency.
Like an intruder.
Or spiders.
Like he’ll be of any use in those instances now.I laugh to myself. Poor man. Stomach bugs suck. I hope he does as good of a job as I have taking care of him when the bug comes for me.
Checking the time, I wonder if Lorelei is still awake. I need some common sense in my life.
12:48 a.m.
Probably not. Maybe Lucy? I send her a text and am greeted immediately with a video chat response. Her wild, strawberry curls sit on top of her head in a bun, her green eyes bore into my soul.
