Page 42 of Under One Roof

“We have to get something into you,” I say, and that earns a soft giggle from her.

“I see what you did there.”

I loop my arm around her, hauling her up to a sitting position, taking nearly all her weight against me. “Did what?”

“Get something into me,” she mutters, resting her head on my shoulder. “You can get into me.”

I cluck my tongue. “I think you’re delirious.”

“A little bit,” she says, and I press my fingers against her pulse point, making sure it’s normal before placing a pillow behind her head.

“I’m going to get you some ginger ale and toast. Don’t move.”

“Yes, sir, Captain Stone, sir.” She salutes me but accidentally smacks herself in the head. She’s a mess. A bewitching little mess.

I barely brown the piece of bread before putting it on a plate, offering it to her along with the warm soda. “Here, sweetheart. Take little sips.”

I hold the can up for her so she can wrap her dry lips around the straw. I encourage her as she drinks and then manages a few nibbles of the dry toast. Even if she chews like it’s the worst thing in the world. “It tastes like sand.”

“You’re cute like this, all loopy and out of it.”

She wrinkles her nose and spits out the mangled piece of bread from her mouth onto the plate.

“What’s wrong? You?—”

That’s when she gags and slaps her hand over her mouth, stumbling to stand. She trips over me as she races to the bathroom in the hall, where I hear her retching before I get there.

I sit down beside her, holding her hair back as her body rids itself of the little food and drink it had. After she’s done, she holds the sides of the toilet and whimpers. “I hate puking.”

“Yeah. It sucks.”

“Everything hurts.”

I reach for the hand towel, hanging from the loop on the wall, and nudge her to sit up so I can wipe her face. Her skin’s pale, and her eyes are bloodshot when they meet mine. She frowns. “Bet you don’t think I’m cute now.”

“I think you’re cute all the time.”

“Liar,” she mumbles, scooting away from me to lean against the wall and close her eyes. We sit for a while, neither of us speaking. I assume she doesn’t feel up to standing yet, so I don’t force her to. Plus, she might not be done.

I’m proven right when she throws herself back at the toilet, her hands slapping on the tile floor, her back bowing as she vomits. I instantly reach for her hair, but I don’t scoop it all up in time, and the poor girl gets some puke on a few strands of hair. I wipe it off as best I can with the towel, but she notices and lets out a pitiful moan. “I’m disgusting.”

“You’re sick.”

“And disgusting. I’m all sweaty,” she says, curling up into a ball on the floor.

“Do you want to shower?”

She waves me off. “Just leave me here to die.”

“Can’t do that, sweetheart.” I scoop her up, and she squeaks out a protest.

“No, don’t. I’m gross. Put me down.”

“You’re not staying on the bathroom floor.” When I cradle her against me, the fight leaves her pretty easily, and she relaxes. I think about that first day she stood in the basement, holding Cat, how jealous I was of him. Now I’ve got this woman in my arms, holding her the same way, her arm even flopped out to the side.

I can’t help the twitch of my lips, and Andi notices. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I would never.”

---