Page 39 of Crossed Up

Why would she need to see Doc? You haven’t been sleeping together long enough to knock her up… right?

Me

She’s still really sick, and I’m worried she’s dehydrated. I just had to pick her up off the bathroom floor and carry her back to our seats

And no, I didn’t get her pregnant, you dick.

Future Mrs. Gray

Oh my god, do you need help? I can swap seats with Cope for the rest of the flight.

And ignore Rhodes, he’s got baby fever and it needs to go to hell.

Me

She’s sleeping now, and Cope has actually been really helpful… you know, when he’s not throwing up too

Wren’s Stalker

But Starling, imagine how cute a mini us would be!

Future Mrs. Gray

Absolutely not, Rhodes Colter. The only reason you want a baby is because you saw Coach’s granddaughter trying to eat her own foot and thought it was cute. Finn ate your favorite socks last week and your exact words were “thank god we aren’t adding a human to this mad house.”

Me

I love y’all, and I’m with Rho on team baby, but this wasn’t helpful

Future Mrs. Gray

Sorry, Aid. I’ll text doc and have him meet us at your house with an IV kit. And if you want a baby so damn bad, go have one of your own. Crew is cute as hell and I bet he’d love a little brother or sister.

Me

Lol thanks, darlin’. But better make it two IV’s, Cope still isn’t doing too hot either.

Relief loosens the vice grip on my throat enough that I can finally take a deep breath, and I studiously ignore the thought of knocking Lyla up with my baby. That’s just a little too much insanity for this early in the morning.

Turning slightly, I bury my nose in Ly’s hair where her head rests on my shoulder. I don’t know how it’s possible after all the sweating and lying on multiple different bathroom floors, but she still smells like sweet cherries and vanilla.

Her scent haunts my dreams almost as much as her moans do.

The last half hour of our flight is easy, and nobody gets sick again, which feels like a win after the last twenty-four hours. The minute we’re off the plane, I’m herding Lyla and Cope to my truck, ignoring his protests in favor of getting an IV in him back at the house.

I open the back door for Cope, and he grumbles as I help him get settled, but his threats don’t hold much water when he passes out the second he sprawls out across the seats.

Lyla, my sweet, sick little angel, is propped up against the passenger side door, looking like death warmed over. So I scoop her up and deposit her gently into the passenger seat with a plastic bag, just in case she gets sick again.

Making my way around to the front of the truck, I turn it on to get the air going and then turn to inspect Ly and make sure she’s still okay. I almost chuckle when I find her asleep with her mouth hanging open.

Quiet puffs of air are the only thing letting me know she is, in fact, still breathing. I place a gentle kiss on her sticky forehead and shift into drive, getting us one step closer to home.

“Aidan, I’m telling you, I feel fine! That IV and a full night’s sleep did wonders, and I want to make breakfast.”

After forcing fluids into both her and Copeland all day yesterday and sending him home late last night, Lyla woke up at our normal time this morning and forewent her usual cup of coffee for a mint tea. She joined me on the swing in spite of my insistence that she go back to bed.

Rhodes’s parents were kind enough to keep Crew again last night so we could get some rest after not sleeping the night before, and from their constant updates, it sounds like he had the time of his life. They should be bringing him home in a couple hours, and I can’t wait. As much as my night with Lyla was worth being away, I’m missing my boy something fierce.

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