“My family won’t mind what you wear to Thanksgiving, Parker. Hell, you can show up in sweats and a sweatshirt if you want. We all only want you to be comfortable and happy.”
“I am happy,” I stated, despite the unknown constantly whirling around in the back of my mind.
He gave me a skeptical look. “And comfortable?”
Saliva pooled in my mouth and my stomach pinchedagain. My hand tightened over my belly, fingers gripping the fabric of the skirt before I shoved away from Beckham and beelined for the bathroom.
I threw the lid to the toilet open as I fell to my knees, and despite trying my best to hold it back, I emptied the contents of my stomach.
Mid-heave, a hand gently rested on my back, rubbing slow circles.
I went to grab for a tissue but Beckham beat me to it, holding one out to me.
After wiping my mouth, I mumbled, “Please don’t watch this.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
I heaved a sigh, attempting to calm the roiling of my stomach. “I’m gross.”
He continued his soothing circles on my back. “You could never be gross.”
I huffed a small laugh, but all it resulted in was another heave into the toilet. After a few minutes, and being sure there was nothing left for me to vomit, he shoved to his feet. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”
I rolled my lips together, willing my stomach to relax enough for me to stand without fear of throwing up more. When I reached up to grab the counter beside me, Beckham set a hand on my elbow, the other at my back, and helped lift me to my feet. He disappeared while I washed my hands and brushed my teeth, and reappeared with a pair of sweats and one of his T-shirts.
“I don’t want to vomit on your shirt,” I said hesitantly.
He shrugged. “I’ve got a washing machine and twelve more if you need to change. I get the packs, remember?” His wink had a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Despite the shitty situation, he still managed to shine a little light.
He set the clothes on the counter and helped me undress, even unclasping my bra for me. He didn’t so much as glance at my breasts as he pulled the shirt over my head, then crouched to help pull the sweats up my legs.
Before I could take a step, he scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bed. With the sheets already pulled back, he set me down and pulled them up to my stomach.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured me before leaving the room. He was back less than five minutes later with all sorts of things. Water, a bottle of Tylenol, a plastic bowl, and a box of tissues. After neatly arranging them on my nightstand, he rounded the bed and crawled in next to me.
“I don’t want to get you sick,” I said, voice hoarse from vomiting.
With no hesitation, he looped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me onto his chest where he lay on his back. With a headache blooming and my skin feeling warm, his heartbeat settled whatever protests I was about to weakly deliver.
“Don’t worry about me, Park,” he murmured into my hair.
My arm draped across his stomach, thigh fitting over his like it used to. “I always worry about you.”
When minutes passed and he remained silent, the realization hit me. “Beckham, your family?—”
“I already texted them that we weren’t coming tonight.”
I tried to sit up but he kept me in place. I wanted to tell him he could still go, but if this was contagious, neither of us would want to spread it to them. “But it’s Thanksgiving.”
“You come before any holiday,” he admitted. “We can have dinner with them another time.”
“Do they know why?”
I felt him nod. “Callan said Sage insisted you stay as hydrated as possible. And I think we should call your doctor after you take a nap.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I reminded him.
“An on-call nurse, then.”
