Rhett lets out a breath. He props his head up on his hand. “Because you asked, Saramaria. Because you were scared and you needed someone. And you should know by now that if youasked any one of us—me, Boone, Knox—we would have stayed. We wouldn’t have hesitated.”
I stare at him. The simple honesty of the statement hits me hard.
“You like me?” I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it. It’s pathetic, maybe, but I need to hear him say it.
Rhett swallows. I watch his throat work. He looks away, toward the window, then back at me.
“You know I do,” he says softly.
He leans in. He presses a kiss to my forehead. His lips are dry and warm against my overheated skin.
“You’re burning up,” he says, pulling back. “Let me get you some Gatorade. You need to hydrate.”
“Wait,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll be right back,” he assures me. “I’ll be two minutes.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He slides off the bed. I watch him walk out the door, the silence of the house settling around me.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. My head throbs in time with my pulse.
Memories of the night before flicker through my mind. Josie behind the bar. The shots. The laughter. The money. The feeling of victory, of hope.
“Josie,” I moan, covering my face with my hands. “Oh god.”
Did I really do seven shots? Did I really tell everyone to give me their money?
“Did I throw up?” I ask the empty room when Rhett walks back in.
He’s holding a bottle of blue Gatorade and a glass of water. He shakes his head. “No. You were surprisingly cooperative. You just wanted your bed.”
He opens the Gatorade and pours some into the glass. He helps me sit up, supporting my back with his hand.
“Drink,” he says.
I take the glass. The liquid is cold and sweet, artificial and wonderful. I down it in one long go.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the glass back to him.
He sets it on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, watching me.
I shift uncomfortably. The heat isn’t going away. It’s getting worse. It feels like ants are crawling under my skin. I feel restless. Anxious.
“What is it?” Rhett asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just feel... hot. And weird.”
I look at him. He is so close. I can smell him—cinnamon and espresso. It makes my mouth water.
“Are you scared of us?” he asks abruptly.
The question catches me off guard.
“What?”
“Are you scared of us?” he repeats. “Of me? Of Boone? Of Knox?”
