“Gabi? Are you?—”
I quickly nod, toss the pizza and Legos on the kitchen counter, before sprinting to the bathroom.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I kneel over the toilet, my stomach doing actual backflips, as I throw up… nothing. Some water, but that’s it. This is the grossest feeling in the world, but I don’t think there’s anything in my body for me to throw up. I had a bagel for breakfast at five this morning. A salad with some chicken for lunch. But both of those meals were cut short due to baked goods needing finished or customers needing served.
Maybe it was bad chicken? Though, I feel like if it was, it wouldn’t have taken me this long to relieve it from my body. Or it would’ve come up now.
“Gabrielle? You okay?”
I shake my head as it rests on my elbow against the toilet. “I don’t think so.”
Normally I’d put on a “I’m fine” front—it was my default mode for so many years—but I don’t have the energy.
Maddox doesn’t say anything, but I do hear water running from the sink. My stomach starts to rumble again, but as I try to squirm to try and make myself comfortable, I feel something cold on the back of my neck.
“There we go,” Maddox whispers as he gathers my hair away. Wait… is he putting it into a ponytail? “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
I let out a sound that probably rivals a sex moan with how good the coolness feels against my skin combined with Maddox's gentle touch as his fingers stroke up and down my back. And for the first time since I came flying in here, my body starts to settle down.
“Thank you.” I mumble, slowly turning my head so I can see him as he sits on top of my bathtub. “You don’t have to stay. I’m sorry my stomach ruined date night.”
He gives me the kindest, softest smile. “Absolutely not. I have nowhere to be other than right here.”
His words send me back to our fateful night in Vegas. It’s not the exact thing he said, but the feeling of comfort is. Maybe even more so now that we’re more than friends. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this man, is that he’s going to show you in every way he can that he’s there for you in any situation.
Take what he’s been doing at the bakery. At this point I actually do need to put him on the payroll. He's been there almost every day since his post went viral, checking to see if he can help. Last week he learned how to ring customers out. The day before that he put his muscles to work and put away the delivery shipment of dry goods I got.
That was a view I didn’t mind looking at.
Then there was yesterday when I walked into the kitchen to see him washing dishes—and not because I asked him to. I told him I didn’t need any help, but he saw the stack of dishes in thesink and did them. I told him I could handle it, which led to him pulling me in, kissing me senseless, before smacking my ass to get me out of the kitchen.
I liked that a whole lot, too.
That wasn’t even the best part. When I went back to check on him an hour later, he had his ear buds in, singing a song at the top of his lungs that was popular when I was in college but he was in middle school. His hips were moving to the beat as he sang the song as loud as possible. It was adorable.
He’stoo adorable.
And I’m royally fucked if I think for one second that I’m not falling hard for him.
I mean, he checks in every morning to see if I need breakfast. Before we got together, he would always text me goodnight. Now my goodnights are soft kisses on my forehead before he pulls me into him because even though my alarm goes off at an ungodly time, he insists on staying over every night.
And now here he is, taking care of me when I'm sick. Which he doesn’t have to do. Most men would’ve heard my gags and hurling and made a beeline out the front door. I know the man I used to be married to would have—and did one time. I believe once when I was sick his line was “I’m around sick people all day. I don’t need to come home to it.”
Yet here Maddox is, rubbing my back to make sure I'm okay. Applying another cold compress on my skin. He thought enough to put my hair in a ponytail so it didn’t get in my face.
It’s at this moment that any qualms I had about his age, or if I was ready to do this, are out of my mind. Because I don’t care if he’s twenty-four or eighty-four, he’s treating me better than I ever thought possible. And that means more to me than any number.
"What can I get you?" he asks. “Water? Ginger ale? Crackers?”
“Those sound great and horrible at the same time,” I say, finally able to sit up and move myself against the wall because I might be upright, but I don't know if I can balance by myself. “I don't know what's wrong with me but I feel like absolute death.”
"Did you eat something weird?" he asks. "Running a fever? The flu?"
I shrug. “I didn't eat much today and I feel like if it was that, it would’ve hit me earlier. I don't have a fever or have any other flu-y symptoms. I'm so tired and also I feel like if I move one inch the nausea is just gonna come rushing back.”
I let my head hit the wall behind me, which is the first time I take in Maddox. He looks so concerned for me. But in a matter of ten seconds his face goes from worried, to me thinking that I’m so far gone that an actual light bulb went off next to his head.
