Page 57 of Capri

There’s no use in trying to appear prettier than I look. I’m a hot case of dirty laundry and stank breath.

“What can I do for you?” Jones asks, not giving a damn if I get him sick and pulling me in for a hug.

“I’m okay. I’m pretty sure I’ve got nothing left to throw up,” I mumble, attempting not to breathe in his face.

His hand reaches to tuck a loose strand behind my ear and the intention of his caretaking is not lost on me. He’s so kind.

Fuck. Why do I feel a sob settling in my chest?

I can’t remember the last time someone thought of me this way. Genuinely caring about my well-being and wanting to do anything in their capacity to make sure I’m alright.

Yes, my family has always been there, but it’s practically their job.

Drew was my husband and argued if I had to stay home from work because I was sick.“We all have to do things we don’t want to, Capri. Tough it out. You’ll be fine.”

Fuck Drew.

Jones owes me nothing and he showed up for me.

“Let’s get you to bed.” He takes the bowl from my hands and leads me to my bedroom, pulling back the comforter for me to settle in.

“You really don’t have to do this, Jones. Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean I expect you to take care of me. I know what I signed myself up for.”

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or rude, but I’d never want him to feel obligated to care for me. Maybe it’s my self-sabotage and past of not expecting much, but I had to make sure he knows I recognize my place.

“Capri, look at me.” My eyes find his steady stare. “You think I don’t know that? But I’m not that guy. I won’t carry on with my day while you’re sick and suffering. Regardless of our label.”

“I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew I didn’t expect it from you. I know I can be difficult when I’m sick.”

Jones rears back like I hurt him. “Who the fuck told you that?”

I tilt my head, and it’s the only answer he needs. “Right. Well, I know you don’t need me to remind you but I’m not some savage boy, searching for a clit and whining over lack of attention. I’m taking care of you because I want to. It’s as simple as that.”

Mother of pearl, he’s so hot when he gets all manly and righteous on me.

“Noted,” I say with a grin, suddenly snapping out of my self-deprecation.

Sharp pain shoots in my stomach, causing me to hunch over in agony. “Bucket, please.” Jones hands it to me and unties my hair before resecuring it in place. “Jones. I can’t puke in front of you. You should go.”

He ignores me. “Was it the seafood ravioli?”

Oh, god. Even the name of it makes me queasy. “Think so,” I mumble, hovering over the bowl.

“Jones, seriously.” I panic, the urge to rid my stomach from its misery not giving me a chance to avoid it.

A strong hand runs circles across my back as I heave through my mouth. “I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re okay,” Jones’ gentle voice calms me as I recover, wiping my lips and doing my best to keep the bowl away from him.

“This is embarrassing,” I murmur.

Without entertaining me, Jones grabs the bowl and walks it to the bathroom, disposing of my embarrassment and soaking it in the sink with some soap from the cabinet. I sit transfixed as he washes his hands and joins me again.

“You should get some rest. There’s a big bowl of chicken noodle soup for you on the stove.”

“You bought me soup?” I ask, feeling swept away by his thoughtfulness.

“I made it, actually. I’m not sure if it’s any good. I was limited on time, so I picked the first recipe I could find. Hopefully it doesn’t make you even more sick.” He chuckles, his demeanor holding a shyness to it.

For such a mature man, it’s cute to see him bashful.

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