How was he being mean to her?
Women were so . . . fragile. Actually, that’s exactly how she looked as she climbed into bed.
Fragile. Ill. Delicate. Dirty.
She still hadn’t bathed.
He stood there as she lay on the bed with a sigh. Now what?
“What do you need?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she grumbled, rolling over so her back was to him. “Go away. I don’t want you here.”
He nearly snapped at her. Then he thought better of it. Grabbing his phone, he looked up what to do when someone had a vomiting bug.
“You need to drink water. I will get you some electrolytes and a bowl.”
A shiver ran through her and he grabbed the blankets, gingerly placing them over her without touching her.
Then he walked out of the room. As he strode away, he felt strange. As though he shouldn’t be leaving.
She’d be fine. No one had ever coddled him through any illnesses he’d had. And he’d survived.
She might even be better by the time he got back.
Oh,she definitely wasn’t better by the time he returned.
No, she seemed much, much worse.
Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes were glassy as she stared at him. The smell of vomit was strong and he was glad he’d remembered an air freshener.
He set the bowl on the small bedside table, along with bottles of water and electrolyte drinks.
“Go away,” she grumbled as he sprayed some air freshener.
“Do you have a fever?”
“What do you care? You’re a mean old bum-farter.”
“Well, I think most people are bum-farters,” he commented.
“You’re the worst.”
“I know I am,” he agreed. “I’ve known that for a long time.”
She glared up at him. “Then do better.”
“I can’t.”
“Pfft. Go away. Leave me to die in misery.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“This is my bedroom.”
“Um, no it’s not.” Was she delirious?
“It is! And you should buggar off.”
