“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” I ask, my voice rough from sleep.
“You got sick on it,” he says evenly. “Like the two before it.”
Oh.
Heat floods my cheeks at the thought. The idea of him seeing me weak, completely vulnerable, makes me want to pull the covers over my head.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” I say, even though I can’t afford it.
“Don’t bother.” There’s no judgment in his voice. No softness either. Just a simple statement.
I glance down, and freeze. This isn’t my nightgown. I’m wearing a T-shirt. A man’s T-shirt. It hangs loose on my frame, soft with wear, the fabric thinned in places from years of being washed.
“Is this yours?”
Carrson nods once.
I glance around, searching. “Where’s my nightgown?”
“I threw it out. It was…” He pauses, then shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”
My fingers find the hem, which falls to mid-thigh, barely there. I tug it down, and that’s when I notice. I’m bare underneath it. No panties. No nothing.
Heat rushes up my neck, spreading fast, until my face is on fire. I go frozen, caught somewhere between mortified and very, very aware of the fact that this…this is his.
His shirt. On my skin.
“Wait,” I say, pushing myself up on my elbows despite my weakness. “Did you—didyou change me into this?”
Carrson’s gaze darts away, ending up somewhere near the window. He nods. And I swear his ears turn pink.
“So you saw me…” I trail off, even though I already know the answer.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, glancing at me, then away again. “I tried not to look.”
I study him. “Tried and succeeded?” I ask. “Or tried and failed?”
His shoulders lift in a small, almost helpless shrug, then fall again. “Somewhere in the middle,” he admits.
I slump back against the pillow, dragging an arm over my eyes. “So embarrassing,” I mutter.
He chuckles faintly, the sound low and rough, as if he doesn’t do it often.
I peek at him over my arm. He’s smiling. Not much. The faintest curve of his mouth, but it’s enough to change his whole face. Softer. Less dangerous. More handsome.
“It’s only fair,” he counters, “since you saw me with that thing in my eye.”
I drop my arm. “You mean when you cried?”
The softness disappears instantly.
“I wasn’t crying,” he says, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“You totally were—”
I stop myself. What am I doing? He saved me, and here I am, picking a fight.
“Sorry,” I mumble. Then, quieter, “And thanks. For making sure I was okay.”
