I blink at it and can’t think of a single thing to say through my feverish haze. If I say anything, I’m afraid I might start to cry.
I grip the watch in my left hand.
“One hour,” he repeats.
CHAPTER 53
RAFE
I find a doctor. She works at one of the private hospitals in Lausanne, and it only takes a couple of phone calls. She comes forty-five minutes later. I spend most of that time sitting in a chair in the corner of our suite, watching Paige curled up and napping with the watch I gave her in hand.
It was an impulse order. A question to one of the master craftswomen in the factory a week ago, asking if we could replace the watch face on one of the Jewels. She turned around amazing work. Impeccable. A piece of the ocean for Paige when she has to be far away from it.
I picked it up earlier today in the factory and realized there was no way I could give it to her. Because we’re not…that.
We could be that.
I can see it, on the horizon. A beckoning prospect or a mirage. But we’re not. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’ve never been someone’s husband before, and she still resents me for forcing her into this position. But then she asked me if I was leaving, with a tone like that was the worst thing she could think of.
And I gave it to her anyway.
There’s a low knock on the door, and I get up to let in the doctor. Paige comes to when she’s examined. A hand on her forehead, a thermometer beneath her tongue. She complies.
She groans a little but answers basic questions. It seems like she’s only barely lucid. Her eyes look a light chestnut beneath the doctor’s flashlight.
I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from moving. From turning into fists at my sides or grabbing Paige’s hand. Illness. It’s not something I’d considered before, but of course there’s illness, too, to worry about. Taking someone suddenly.
She didn’t tell me earlier today that she was feeling ill. She played along, let me… fuck. She’d been so hot against my tongue. Had she been feverish even then?
“Your pulse is quick,” the doctor says in French-accented English. “A temp of nearly 38.7. No wonder you’re feeling so… bad.”
“What’s that? 38?” Paige looks at me.
“Just over a hundred Fahrenheit,” I tell her.
“Oh.” She sinks back against the pillow, her eyes drifting closed. The doctor’s thorough. Listens to Paige’s lungs and heart, too, while I hover.
After she’s done with her examination, the doctor turns to me with a bottle of fever-reducing pills. They’re stronger than the single painkiller I gave her earlier.
“Likely a viral infection,” she tells me. “The flu is rare this time of year, but it happens. Keep her cool. If the fever doesn’t break tomorrow, call me again.”
I thank her and tell her she’ll be compensated well. She’s lucky to have such a caring husband, she tells me, and leaves the hotel suite.
I grab the book I’m reading and pull the chair in close to the bed. Paige is still curled up on her side, eyes closed, napping again. I wonder if she’ll have any memory of this tomorrow.
I try to read. It’s hard to focus, shifting from the pages before me to looking at her. Her skin is flushed. I change the cool towels twice, and we pass over an hour like that.
Until she starts to shift in bed. She burrows deeper under the comforter like she’s cold. It’s impossible. She’s hot—too hot. But the body doesn’t act rationally when you have a high fever.
She pushes the cool towel off her forehead.
“You’re cold?”
“Yes.” Her teeth clatter. Damn it. I put a blanket on top of the comforter. The hotel room isn’t cold. It’s inside her, this virus that had her sweating earlier and has now made her clammy.
After another few minutes of her shaking, her eyes meet mine with bleak focus. “Rafe?”
I brush hair off her face. It’s the only part of her that’s above the edge of the blanket. Her skin is dry and hot to the touch. I hate that her teeth are chattering. She’s meant to be diving off my dock and giving me fucking heart attacks. Not making me hurtthisway.
