And on the short drive to the very fancy hotel Calliope had put me up in, I’d taken a turn for the worse. I’d spent the whole day trying to talk myself out of being sick and then used my last bursts of energy to call Calliope to weakly argue with her about paying for the hotel.
It was a testament to my lack of energy that she won that argument because I didn’t like taking charity from anyone. Although I suspected Calliope probably would’ve won that argument even if I’d had all my faculties. Regardless, I was nowhere near equipped to go toe-to-toe with her.
Hence, my letting her organize the hotel. And because packing my bag and driving there depleted all of the remaining energy I had left in my body.
Then there was the dull pulse of panic inside of me that I’d been in denial for too long and had exposed something to Clara that might actually kill her. I was overcome with worry; if I felt this bad, how would this affect Clara’s fragile immune system? Guilt cloaked me thicker than the sheet of sweat on my body.
I knew that it was not my fault I was sick. And that Clara would eventually be exposed to illnesses. Her doctors wouldn’t have cleared her for her birthday, then the Halloween party if they weren’t confident in her body’s ability to fight off infections.
I’d seen her numbers. They were excellent. Clara was the ideal recovery patient. Nothing short of a miracle. If she were exposed to whatever I had, there was a chance she could fight it off entirely. If she got sick, she would recover. Shehadto recover.
I got sick because I hadn’t been sleeping, barely eating, and had become a wreck since Halloween, since Calliope’s near-death experience. Since the tension between Beau and me had intensified. And because I got another credit card bill from a different company. Waylon was back to his old tricks again.
I had been so focused on taking care of Clara, resisting Beau, denying my feelings for him, and panicking about Waylon that I’d run myself down. That was my script, and I had to stick to it.
The goal was to recover as quickly as possible so I could get back to Clara and ensure that she was healthy.
I was expecting room service when I opened the door.
I wasn’t hallucinating. My fever wasn’t high enough for that.
“You can’t be here,” I groaned, squinting at Beau’s large shape in the doorway. I tried to shut the door in his face, but he caught it with his boot, and I wasn’t strong enough to push back. “You need to be with Clara,” I told him, trying to use my body as a barrier. “You can’t be exposed to whatever fresh hell this plague is.” I let out a wet cough.
My need for Clara to have her caregiver healthy gave me the strength to sound strong and authoritative.
“I need to be here, with you,” Beau protested, slipping a mask over his face. “I’ve got this. And you know as well as I do that Clara has likely already been exposed. Now let me in.”
I stayed where I was. “If she has already been exposed, then you need to be at home, with her, monitoring her,” I argued. “I can take care of myself.”
Even with the mask on, I saw Beau form a scowl. “I checked her temp less than an hour ago; she’s fine. Elliot and Calliope are with her right now. And I’m calling the doctor in the morning. Clara is taken care of. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
My breath left my lungs. And it had nothing to do with any kind of flu.
“Step back before you fall,” Beau instructed through gritted teeth.
Still, I couldn’t move.
“So help me, Hannah, I will fucking carry you into that room.” His threat was a rough growl.
I moved only because Beau sounded scarily serious. The last thing either of us needed right then was physical contact.
I walked back into the room, all but collapsing on the sofa in the living room of the suite. I’d never been in a hotel room that had more than a bed and an attached bathroom. The hotels I’d been in had questionably clean sheets and mold in the bathrooms.
Not only did this place have a separate living room, but it had marble bathrooms. Exquisite furnishings. It reeked of luxury and wealth.
Never had I been somewhere as opulent as this, yet I was too sick to enjoy it.
Beau didn’t so much as glance at the surroundings, his gaze fixed on me.
“Why in the fuck didn’t you call me?” Beau prowled forward, depositing a large bag on the coffee table in front of me.
“I did call you.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. My head was pounding. “But you were working. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Beau was silent for a handful of seconds, hands on his hips as the air practically pulsed with his anger.
“Bother me?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, wincing at the motion.
