I blink my eyes open, a worried face coming into hazy focus.Ryder. “What happened?” I croak.
“You fainted,” he says, shifting the throw pillow behind my head, smoothing my hair off my face. I’m on the couch in my rental house. Did I swoon at the sight of him?How embarrassing. “I caught you before you hit the ground, so I know you don’t have a concussion, but it took you a while to come to.” His face is etched with concern, a deep groove carved between his brows. “I didn’t call 911, but I’m still thinking about it.”
“I’m fine,” I say in a garbled slur, trying to sit up, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Don’t get up. Stay right here while I grab you something to drink, okay?”
I mumble something incoherent as he heads for the kitchen, and I hear his muttered curse when he opens the fridge. “There’s barely any food in here. Is this the problem? Have you eaten anything today?” I hear the sound of crinkling cellophane—he must be getting into that monstrosity of a gift basket—before he’s back, perching on the edge of the sofa.
“I ate about ten thousand calories with you last night,” I rasp, my limbs heavy and limp. I feel like I’m moving underwater. “Should last me through the winter.”
“She’s got jokes, that’s a good sign. Drink this,” he instructs, holding a bottle of water to my lips.
“What are you, a doctor now?” I tease half-heartedly, but I do as he says, gulping down several mouthfuls. When I’m done, he sets it on the coffee table…right next to a bouquet of violets. Awareness comes flooding back, making my head throb. I’m disoriented and foggy, my brain filled with static, like it’s frozen mid-reboot. I feel shaken up like a snow globe.
His eyes haven’t stopped scanning me. “No, I just play one on TV.”
“He’s got jokes.” The water’s revived me a bit, so I sit up a little and attempt to straighten my dress, which is now a wrinkled mess. My hands are clammy, and I’m shaking and sweating at the same time. My body temperature is all off.
I glance at him, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. He’s looking a little unwell himself. “Areyouokay?”
He exhales a breath. “I mean, not really. You scared the hell out of me.” He sags back against the couch, his palm resting on my leg like a tether.
I love this man.The thought blooms inside me, desperate for air, like a fledgling flower cracking through concrete. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”
“You fainting isnotcute.”
I reach over and find his hand, threading my fingers through his and squeezing. “I’m fine, Ry. Really.”
He lolls his head my direction and looks at me sidelong, and I send him a small smile of reassurance. He brushes his thumb across the back of my hand, and the tension stretches taut between us, his brown eyes softening the longer we hold each other’s gaze.
I have to tell him.
He pats his lap. “Come here,” he says softly.
I scooch down the couch, laying my calves across his lap. He slides my heels off and sets them on the floor, and when he starts massaging my feet, I let out a moan.
“So tell me something,” he says, his thumbs digging into my arch with gentle pressure.I’ve missed these magic hands.“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I can still make you go weak in the knees, but is there a reason you’re fainting at the sight of me?”
He’s given me the perfect opening, but now that the moment’s upon us, I lose my nerve. “Aren’t they expecting us at the concert?” I dodge. “We should get going.”
He keeps kneading in a steady rhythm, his fingers moving up to the ball of my foot. “Scarlett, you just fainted. We’re not going to the concert.” His tone is one of calm authority, like he’s dealing with a recalcitrant child.
“But I wanted to hear the song without crying!” I wail in despair.
He blinks at me, his fingers pausing. “I’m starting to regret not calling the paramedics.”
I slump back against the cushions, defeated. “It’s just, I had a whole plan for how tonight would unfold, and now it’s all screwed up.”
“Does the plan include explaining why my showing up with flowers made you pass out?”
I swallow heavily.I guess this is it—the point of no return.“Yes. Do you mind if I change out of this dress first?”
“Do you need help?” There’s no innuendo in his question, only concern.
I shake my head, and he nods, squeezing my shin. “I’ll wait here.”
I retreat to my bedroom and strip off my dress, mentally apologizing to the fashion gods (aka my stylist) that this beautiful confection will never see the light of day. I’m still hot and cold, so I throw on my cutoffs, and after a brief moment of deliberation, reach for the Seafolly sweatshirt buried in the bottom of my suitcase. If this is the end, at least I’ll have the memory of him to comfort me.
