Page 33 of Saving The Shortstop

“Sorry, I was just going to wash my hands in there,” I say, knowing that a random dude walking around a female-only house might freak her out, and that’s the last thing I want.

“Oh—okay,” she utters, bobbing her head softly. “Is Haven okay? I saw all the cold supplies in the kitchen. And I assume you just came out of her room.”

“Yeah, she’s okay,” I say quickly. “She’s sick.”

“I figured.” She nods before quickly holding her hand out. “I’m Lilly, by the way. I just moved in last week.”

I stare awkwardly at her hand. “Dallas,” I mutter. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m covered in Vicks rub.” As soon as I say it, I realize that sounds kind of perverted, and now she probably thinks I was in there massaging Haven for the hell of it. And that’s not true at all. If she didn’t need the Vicks to help her cough, I sure as hell wouldn’t have rubbed it on her.

She pulls her hand back nervously, and her cheeks redden. “Oh, right.” She backs away slowly. “Nice to meet you, Dallas.”

“You too,” I mumble just before she heads down the hallway and into her room. I finally wash the minty shit that’s starting to tingle a bit off my hands.

Once I’ve gotten all the crap off me, I head back into her room. I close the door behind me and walk over to her. She’s sleeping, but when I touch her cheek and then her forehead, she’s still way too hot for my liking.

I look from her to the empty side of the bed before sighing.

“Fuck it,” I barely grunt. And before I know it, I’m climbing into bed next to her. Not because I want to be close to her or anything like that—but because I just need to make sure she’s okay.

Yeah, that’s definitely all this is.

FOURTEEN

HAVEN

The clock beside my bed says eight thirty p.m., which means I slept the afternoon away. My head feels hot, almost making my scalp prickle, and my entire body hurts. My headache has dulled a bit, maybe thanks to the darkness of the room. I have no idea what sickness hit me today, but it’s rare for me to feel bad enough to climb into bed and fall asleep.

I’m groggy and a little disoriented, but I remember Dallas taking care of me, and I almost cringe because wow, I’m a stuffy, sweaty mess. I guess it’s good that he really has seen me during all my worst times.

I wonder when he left or where he went. I can’t believe he went to the store for me and got medicine. I won’t allow myself to read into it too much. It’s not like it means anything other than maybe, just maybe, he’s softening in his old age.

My stomach feels completely empty, and as if it can hear my thoughts, it growls, telling me how hungry I am. I skipped breakfast this morning because I was starting to feel crummy, and at lunch, all I could choke down was half a bagel before sleeping through dinner completely. Food may not sound appetizing, but I know I need to consume something.

My throat tickles and my chest constricts, sending a few bark-like coughs from my body, and I grimace because damn, that hurts.

The sound of a long, sleepy breath followed by slight movement from beside me has my neck craning and eyes darting to see where—or who—it came from. The last thing I expect is the person actually beside me. And sick or not … my heart does a freaking flip inside my chest.

Because it’s not one of my roommates or friends next to me.

It’s Dallas. And now, he’s stirring, on the verge of waking up.

In my bed.

Only, it’s not sexy like I’ve always fantasized about. Instead, I smell like VapoRub. My hair feels dirty and is matted to my head, and my throat feels like it has razor blades in it. But when I look down at myself, I cringe because … I’m in my panties and tank top.

Beside Dallas freaking Rivers. My long-time crush, slight obsession, and childhood friend.

What a weird turn of events.

Finally, his eyes open and he drags a hand down his face. His eyes float around the room, and I sort of expect him to panic, realizing he must have fallen asleep with me. Instead, he rolls to his side so that he’s facing me and props his head up.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, cool as a cucumber.

“Not great,” I say, but my voice is so weak and raspy that it’s barely audible. I swallow a few times, trying to moisten my throat, but that only makes it hurt more.

His hand reaches for my forehead yet again, splaying his palm across it.

“You’re still pretty warm.” His eyes dart past me, landing on the clock. “Just about time for you to take more medicine. But first, you need to eat.”