“Volkov!” I shot up. “I have to talk to him.”
“Later, Lauren.” Strong, warm hands gripped my shoulders and pushed me down gently. The pillow was cool, when it wasn’t before. Magic. “He will be available when you are better.”
“No, it’ll be too late. Get my phone.” I palmed the side table, like a child petting a dog too vigorously. “Where is it?”
“I have it,” my stupid husband said, but he didn’t hand it over. Withholding jerk. Always keeping the good stuff to himself, like that manly cedar scent and forbidden kisses. “But you can’t talk to him now. He’s on a plane. We’ll figure it out later.”
“You—you should leave. You’ll get sick.” I tried to focus on the tall figure standing at the door. “Jason, tell him to go.”
“Who should we call, Lo?” My friend sounded worried.
“No one. I’ll be fine.”
The weight lifted from the bed. Don’t go! Please stay!
A murmured conversation ensued, then the door closed, leaving me in darkness.
“Are you still here?” I whispered into the dark.
“Yes, Silver Eyes. Go to sleep and rest.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lauren
* * *
Ever feel like you’re a character in a Jane Austen novel, the one who gets drenched in a rainstorm and catches pneumonia while the hero tends to her every need? (Hooray for Colonel Brandon, a hero for the ages.)
This wasn’t that tale, but I did like that I wasn’t by myself. It occurred to me that dating Thad was quite lonely. We lived separate lives, came together for meals and sex, then went our own way again. I rarely asked him for help or did anything that would put him out because I didn’t want to come across as needy. I had been independent for so long, the captain in college and in my pro career. Even as an agent with Mallinson, I balked at the idea that I had to consult with more senior agents or run my ideas by the brass. I was born to operate solo.
But a little consideration was nice, too, especially when I was too weak to care for myself.
It felt like hours had passed before I saw him again, but I could hear him puttering about on the intermittent occasions I awoke. Those noises comforted me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
The door cracked open. “Lauren, are you awake?”
“Y-yes.” I tried to sit up.
“Slowly, lyubimaya.” He sat on the bed and adjusted the pillow for me as I struggled to an upright position. “You are as weak as a kitten.”
“Am not.” My head spun as I attempted a playful thump of his arm that missed the mark. “Okay, maybe.”
“How do you feel?”
“Awful. Well, a bit better, but still awful, if that makes sense.”
“When did you last eat?”
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven p.m. on Thursday.”
Over thirty hours of illness. “I haven’t held anything down in a day.”
“Then we will start with chicken noodle soup. Without the chicken or the noodles.”
“Sounds boring.”
