The sight of her there, kneeling at his feet, struck him as profoundly wrong and strangely right simultaneously.
She set his shoes aside with care before helping him swing his legs onto the bed. The domesticity of the gesture felt both foreign and familiar, as if they’d done this a hundred times before.
“Rest,” she said, pulling the covers over him with gentle hands. “I’ll get water and more Tylenol.”
As she turned to leave, he caught her wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bones. The touch was electric, even through the haze of fever.
“Why?” he asked, the single word carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t voice.
She looked down at where his hand held hers, then back to his face. “Because I’ve spent six months watching you take care of everyone else. The company. Your clients. Your team.Even me, in your own prickly way.” Her lips curved. “It’s time someone took care ofyoufor a change.”
He released her wrist, watching as she walked to the door.
She paused at the threshold and glanced back. “Besides,” she said, “your refrigerator is probably stocked with nothing but protein shakes and one sad apple. Someone needs to order you real food.”
With that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with the realization that for the first time in years, he’d willingly let someone cross the fortified boundaries of his private life.
More unsettling still was the recognition that instead of regretting it, he found himself hoping she’d stay.
Chapter 14
She slipped outof his bedroom, determined to find something to relieve his fever. His bathroom was what she’d expected—immaculate, expensive, and organized with exacting care. The medicine cabinet yielded Tylenol, which she grabbed before filling a glass with cool water.
When she returned to his bedroom, his normally composed features were flushed, dark hair falling across his forehead. Disheveled, vulnerable, and nothing like the version of him she was used to seeing.
“Here,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. “You need to take these and drink all of this water.”
He struggled to sit up, and she instinctively slid an arm behind his shoulders to help. The heat from his skin, even through his shirt, was alarming.
“You’re still burning up,” she said quietly, pressing her palm to his forehead again. “We should check your temperature. Where’s your thermometer?”
“Medicine cabinet. Top shelf.”
She found the thermometer just where he’d said it would be, of course.
When she returned, he had sunk back against the pillows, his eyes closed.
“Ronan,” she said. “I’m going to take your temperature now.”
His eyes opened, an eyebrow arching weakly. “Not very romantic.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “Are you delirious already? Because you making jokes is definitely a symptom.”
His thermometer was a sleek digital model that looked like it belonged in a doctor’s office. She pointed it at his temple and pressed the button.
The device beeped within seconds. She read the display, eyes widening.
“103.2,” she said. “That’s not good. You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual authority.
“Okay,” she said, fixing him with a stern look. “But if this doesn’t bring your fever down, I’m calling someone. Non-negotiable.”
He sighed, too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Acceptable terms.”
She headed to his kitchen to get what she needed for a compress. The space was sleek, spotless, and looked barely used—exactly what she’d expected from him.
She filled a bowl with ice and water, grabbed a clean dish towel, and returned to find him shivering beneath the covers.
