“That would be great. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” I bite on my lower lip, absorbing the state of him. He doesn’t look like he got an ounce of sleep, and that makes for two nights in a row. All I want is to go into that hotel room and start fussing over him, but Will is right. I need to handle this site visit first.
“I’ll be back soon,” I whisper.
“I’ll be here,” he whispers back.
Down at the hotel restaurant, the chef lets me know he can send up crackers and ginger ale to Will’s room. With that taken care of, I turn my focus to work.
I make it to the supplier and tour the property in a fugue state, though I’m present enough to ascertain it’s a viable option for Revenant. No glaring red flags, nice employee facilities, safe conditions, quality product. Icando this on my own, but for the first time in a long time, I realize maybe I don’twantto.
I wish Will was here with me. I wish I could consult with my consultant.
On this. On everything.
About halfway through a sit-down with the supplier to discuss samples and invoicing terms, my stomach twists.
It feels like someone is driving a dull screw into the lining ofmy insides. As the minutes pass, it only gets worse, and worse, and worse. By the time I leave the place at three in the afternoon, I’m forced to hunch over as I walk back to my ride in an effort to manage the pain.
I don’t think it’s food poisoning,I text him.
Shit. Are you feeling sick?Will replies right away.I’m already mostly better.
24-hour stomach virus?I guess.
Maybe. Are you on your way back?
I don’t reply. Will had the right idea.
When I get back to my hotel room, the last thing I want is him witnessing the fallout.
“Josephine Davis, open this door right fucking now.”
“Go away,” I moan.
“I will not.”
With herculean effort, I crawl from the bathroom across the carpeted floor of my hotel room, making my way toward the bed. My stomach is depleted at this point, nothing left in me to expel, but the virus isn’t done with me yet. It’s like a million tiny cactus pricks are combing my tummy. More horrid is the knowledge that there’s nothing I can do to ease the pain but wait it out. I’ve had the norovirus before, when I was a teenager on a cruise ship; I know how it works. You hate your life for twenty-four hours, and then you’re totally fine.
I can feel a fever setting in.
Will pounds on the door between our rooms again. “I can hear you moaning over there like a dying animal. Let me in!”
“You didn’t letmein!” I shout back. The effort makes my skull explode.
“Because I thought it was food poisoning!”
“How does that make a difference?”
“You didn’taskto come in!I’masking!”
“And I’m refusing!”
Will groans. The door shakes as his body probably slumps against it. “Please?” he tries, voice softening. “I’ve got mouthwash.”
“So do I. It came with the room.”
His voice slips under the door and into my bones. “I’m begging you to let me help you, Josephine. I can’t take this.”
