Page 53 of Hold the Line

She sighed and patted my cheek. “I blame your father for making you this way. Too selfless for your own good. If you get the flu, who’s going to take care of you?”

I leaned into her hand. “You, obviously.”

That made her roll her eyes. “Obviously. I’m here taking care of your sort of ex-boyfriend. Of course I’d take care of you. But I’d rather you not get sick. As good as I am at nursing my ailing children, I can’t bake worth a damn. If you’re down and out, who’s going to make your muffins?”

I crinkled my nose. “I won’t breathe his air.”

“That’s a realistic solution.”

“Actually, I was thinking about going to work in the morning while he’s here…” I trailed off, hoping she would fill in the blanks and offer.

“I see what you’re doing, Phe. I’ll come back in the morning to check on you both.” She took my hand in hers. “Please be careful.”

She didn’t have to say she meant that in every way. She’d seen me give with my whole heart only to have it stomped on, and she’d been there for the aftermath. I supposed I was still living in the aftermath since I’d never felt the same again.

“I will,” I promised.

At least, I would try.

After my mother left, I was in and out of my bedroom all evening, running a washcloth over Deacon’s head and rousing him enough to drink some water. When he’d sweat through his clothes, I took his keys from his pocket and ran upstairs to his apartment to grab some fresh, comfortable ones.

Passing the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. The card I’d given him weeks ago was hanging on his refrigerator, pressed flowers stark against shiny stainless steel. I wondered when he’d hung it there. After the tavern? We’d spent most of our time at my place, but I’d been in his on occasion, and that card hadn’t been anywhere in sight.

For reasons I couldn’t name, seeing it there made my heart skip a few beats, and I had trouble taking a full, deep breath.

Oh, Deacon, how can you be so unbearably sweet and still have screwed up so massively? It isn’t fair.

When I returned to my apartment, Deacon was sitting on the edge of my bed, shoulders slumped, head low. His elbows rested on his knees, and his fingers dragged down his face before he looked up at me through bleary eyes.

“You came back,” he croaked.

“I had to. This is my apartment.”

His gaze drifted away, his eyes wandering around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Yeah,” he muttered, confusion twisting his features. “What am I doing here?”

Ignoring his question, I put his things down and moved to his side, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. His skin was clammy, but the fever seemed to be easing. “I think you might be a little cooler. Are you up for getting changed?”

“Think so.” Gripping the mattress, he tried to stand, but his legs gave out, and he plopped back onto the bed with a defeated groan. “Might need some help.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, looking over him. “I’m here.”

The hand that’d been on his thigh reached out to brush my leg as I stood in front of him. “You really are. How’s that?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, brushing his damp hair back. “Let’s get your shirt off first, all right?”

Deacon wasn’t a lot of help, but at least he cooperated. Getting him changed into a clean T-shirt and soft sweats took effort, his sluggish movements making everything twice as difficult. By the time I was done, his remaining strength was spent. Eyes closed, his head lolled on my pillow. I stood over him, hugging my arms to my chest, unsure of what to do next. I was bone-tired, and my couch called to me. But leaving him alone didn’t sit right.

“Don’t go,” he murmured, almost as if in a dream. “Stay, sugar.”

I brushed my fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my touch. “Okay, Deacon,” I whispered. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Deacon

Ihadtobedreaming.

Had to.

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