Page 62

I should have realized Maeve was flagging earlier when we got back to the house.

She didn’t say anything, of course. She never wants to be a bother to anyone—that much is painfully obvious. I want to have a stern word with whoever raised her, making it clear that she couldn’t take up space or ask for anything for herself. But I don’t think she’s used to spending so much time around people like this. Judging by what bits of her personal life I’ve picked up, she’s pretty isolated in the world, and she spends all her time at work with us anyway.

I’d been unsure if I should say something or not. That little Spitfire is damn independent and stubborn. And she seemed genuinely excited to help decorate the tree. I think it’s both adorable and admirable that she enjoys Christmas so much, even though she can’t see the two most prominent colors of the season.

I’d decided to keep it to myself and wait to see if she took a break on her own. But now, watching her get flushed while kneeling to pull out the Christmas lights, I realize I should have acted on my instincts. Maeve’s an adult, and as much as I want to rush over and take care of her, I know she won’t appreciate being treated like a delicate flower.

Maeve stands up, lights in hand—and I see her sway dangerously. Her face goes from flushed to alarmingly pale in a matter of seconds.

Oh, shit. Something’s definitely wrong.

I drop my ornaments and scramble over to her just as Maeve’s knees give out. She’s reaching for a chair, trying to take care of herself even while collapsing, but she goes down hard.

I catch her just in time, making sure to cradle her head and neck in the crook of my arm so they’re properly supported. She’s breathing shallow and quick, completely different from how she was breathing earlier today.

“Oh my god,” Lydia says, her voice pitched high with worry. “Is she okay? She looked sick just a second ago⁠—”

“I’ll get her some water,” Hayden says, already heading for the kitchen.

Gabriel immediately arranges the pillows on the couch so I can set Maeve gently down on it. As she slumps against the cushions, stirring a little, I feel her forehead with the back of my hand. She’s sweaty and running too hot.

Fuck. I should have noticed this earlier.

I shouldn’t have let her go on so many activities with us. I know my mom likes to cram a lot into one holiday since it’s the only time she gets with all of us, but Maeve is already overworked enough as it is, being the assistant to three CEOs.

“She doesn’t need water,” my father says dismissively. “She needs a stiff drink.”

“Oh, please,” I snap at him. “Look at her. She needs proper fluids, not a pick-me-up. It’s not like she swooned like a Victorian maiden. She’s actually sick. Something’s wrong.”

Hayden returns with the water as Maeve stirs again, her eyelashes fluttering. I watch, stomach in knots, as her eyes open and her gaze sharpens. She looks around and immediately tries to push herself back up.

“No, no.” I guide her back down against the pillows. “Rest for a second, get your bearings.”

“It’s probably low blood sugar,” Liam says. “She just needs a snack.”

“She’s feverish,” I snap back.

Hayden helps Maeve drink the water. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and tired. “I’m sorry, I—please don’t make a fuss. I’m fine.”

“I’m getting you up to bed.” I wait until she finishes drinking the water, then pick her up, her head resting against my shoulder.

She’s so soft and warm against me. Maeve’s a curvy woman, and I like her that way, but right now she feels incredibly small and fragile in my arms. “You need rest.”

“I’m sorry.” Maeve still sounds out of it. “Please don’t let me ruin anything…”

“You’re not ruining a thing,” my mother insists kindly. “Let’s check your temperature and see what’s what, shall we?”

Mom loves having a purpose and a plan. I let her fetch the thermometer while I carry Maeve up to our room. She’s groggy and doesn’t really say anything as I get her situated. I find her a soft bathrobe.

“I’m sure I’m fine,” Maeve insists, even though she clearly isn’t. “A little nap and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Even if that’s true, you’re not napping in your clothes. Put on something comfortable.” I turn away to give her privacy, but I can hear the slow, shuffling way she moves as she undresses and puts on the robe.

Yeah, something is definitely off.

Mom appears with the thermometer, and Maeve, cowed by my mother’s nurturing manner, obediently takes it in her mouth. I sure wouldn’t stand a chance against my mother insisting on taking care of me, either.

The thermometer beeps, and my mother takes it out of Maeve’s mouth, studying the display. “Yes, dear, you are definitely running a low fever. Cold or flu, not sure which.”