He doesn’t even sound breathless, and I’m not a light weight. He eases me into a darkened room. I’ve always wanted to see his private spaces, to see the way he inhabits the rooms he calls home, but I don’t even pay attention now. All I can see is the massive bed, and I could cry with relief.
“You need the bathroom?” he asks, lowering me to the floor.
I shake my head and moan at the pain in my skull. I pull at my clothes and make a disgruntled sound when they don’t fly off immediately, and instantly his hands are there unbuttoning and unzipping.
“Lie down, baby,” he says, easing me down onto a firm mattress. The sheets billow above me, and then I’m engulfed in cool cotton that smells of him. I’m in his bed. I snuggle down into the pillow, sighing.
He goes to move away, and I stretch out my hand. “Don’t go,” I mutter. I’ll want to shoot myself for that in the morning, but I can’t help the plaintive words today. “Don’t leave me.”
I feel his hand in my hair, his fingers stroking it back, the movement as gentle as a kiss. “I’m not going anywhere, baby. Not when you need me.” I want to remonstrate with him, but I can’t. Instead, I sigh and hear him say, “My Xavi,” very softly. And then sleep falls over me like a blanket coming down over the whole world.
chapter 15
. . .
Xavier
When I wake next, the sun is pouring through a big picture window, and I’m warm and cosy under a thick duvet. I stay still for a second, checking myself, but my headache seems to have gone. I savour the feeling and then come up on my elbows and look around my surroundings—Reuben’s bedroom.
When I first met him, I’d have predicted his style to be very minimalist, so devoted was he to being alone. This is something very different. It’s actually cosy.
The walls are whitewashed stone, and the floorboards are obviously the original ones because, although they’re polished to a soft sheen, they’re scarred and pockmarked by generations of people walking on them. The bed is a huge old iron bedstead, but the duvet and pillows are plump, and the green checked bed linen is expensive. I’ve lain on enough high-class hotel sheets to know the difference. A thick orange bedspread lies on the bottom of the bed, and the whole effect is autumnal and cosy.
Artwork hangs on the walls, and I recognise two of Ivo Robinson’s flower pictures. I whistle. I bet they weren’t cheap. There’s also a big fireplace on one wall, but it’s unlit, and theair is cool, raising goosebumps, so I lie back on the pillows and snuggle under the covers.
I can hear movement downstairs—the steady tread of footsteps and intriguing rattles and bangs. The scent of cooking bacon drifts into the room, and my stomach rumbles. I’m vastly relieved that the nausea seems to have gone. My belly rumbles again, and as if on cue, I hear footsteps on the stairs, and the bedroom door swings fully open.
Reuben edges in, carrying a tray. He looks immediately over at me, and his eyes light in relief. “You’re awake.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sound far more relieved about that than is comfortable.”
He sets the tray down on the bedside table. “You had a bad night.”
I blink. “Did I?” Memory stirs, and I remember being sick a few more times until I was just retching emptily. I flush as I suddenly also remember crying about how bad my head hurt and how he’d held me tight, rocking me against him as he placed cold compresses on my forehead.
He nods and reaches out, placing his hand on my forehead. His hand is big, the skin warm, and I just manage to restrain myself from nestling into him. I don’t think my dignity could take it. “Good. You’re cool again. I was on the edge of ringing the doctor last night.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t,” I say, horrified.
“I knew you’d be like that, but I still would have done it if needed. You fell asleep, though, so I left you alone.”
“It wasn’t my best night, but it probably hasn’t been my worst, and I was fine on my own.”
It’s a light comment, but he immediately looks troubled. “I can’tbearthe idea that you’ve been ill on your own,” he says fiercely.
“I was actually thinking of some of the hangovers I’ve had.”
He frowns. “Hmm.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, come on. I know all your hmms. They havelayers.”
That surprises a laugh out of him. When he subsides, he shrugs. “Just that you’ve been living a hard life for a while. It’s bound to catch up with you.”
I’m irritated now. “Oh, an appearance by Saint Reuben. Howlovely. I haven’t seen him in at least twenty-four hours.”
