Page 91 of Riding the Sugar High

She barely responds, her eyes closing, and I’d feel better if she’d consented to it. Still, I guess extreme situations call for extreme measures, so I fit my hand up her shirt, grazing the sweaty and hot—way too hot—skin of her chest before I position the thermometer under her armpit.

“Don’t move, okay?” I tell her, but receive no answer.

I pace beside the bed, throwing a glance at Lola, who, probably bothered by the commotion, wanders out of the room. Once the thermometer beeps, I approach her, and Primrose whines as my hand touches her. I must feel as cold as ice to her.

“Holy shit,” I mumble when I see the numbers on the screen. 102 degrees. We need to lower her temperature immediately.

I give her medicine and put a cold, wet cloth over her forehead. She tries to get it off and complains she’s freezing, so I compromise on another blanket if she leaves it on.

After that, there isn’t much more I can do, so I sit next to her on the bed, wetting the cloth with cold water every time it turns hot. I watch her sweat through the sheets, whine in her sleep, and wish there was more I could do for her to feel better. That there was an expedited way to make her get over whatever she has.

I guess for a while, she won’t be leaving a mess all over my house, listening to her terrible music like she’s at a live show while she works.

Why does that annoy me?

I let my hand trail down her arm, then rub her knuckles, her fingers tightly holding the blanket, and feeling the pressure of my hand, she lets go and entangles her fingers with mine.

Shit. My stomach drops, and quickly, I pull my hand away. For fuck’s sake, this feels like more than physical attraction. Like her touch is infusing me with life.

What do I do now?!

* * *

“Have you been awake the whole night?”

Defensively, I square my shoulders and set the mug down when Primrose’s head drops against the pillow again. Considering it’s taken twenty minutes to get her to drink half a cup of tea, I don’t think it’s even warm at this point.

“You’re sick.”

“Aww. Are you worried about me?”

“Yes. You look like shit.”

She lets out a sound that’s probably supposed to be a chuckle, and I’m equally pleased to have made her laugh and concerned it sounds like a dying crow.

Biting my bottom lip, I watch her eyes close, my mind speeding as I consider my options. I haven’t slept a second, and I’m not comfortable leaving her alone—or with Kyle. I guess someone else will have to take care of deliveries.

“I’m cold.”

So she’s been saying all night long, and I’ve added blanket after blanket to the pile. “I don’t think I have any more blankets, Primrose.”

Her hand tugs at my shirt. “Come warm me up.”

With a sigh, I lie next to her, then lift the layer of blankets. I gently pull her to me, her soft body relaxing against mine instantly. I must feel lukewarm at best to her, but she seems to like my proximity, and within a few minutes, her shivering subsides.

“Why can’t I be your backpack?”

I freeze, my chest stilling against her cheek. Did she say...

I force a breath out and search for a possible answer in my brain. She’s feverish. She might as well be high. She probably didn’t even realize she said that out loud, and I should ignore her and wait for her to sleep.

But she said ‘backpack.’ Is that common knowledge?

“Kyle told me...” She breathes hard. “That you only let girls you’re attracted to ride with you.”

Kyle didwhat?I swear, I don’t know why I keep him around.

“Wait, so, the other night...” She was testing me. I told her I’m attracted to her, then I told her I wouldn’t let her ride with me, and she...she thought I was lying. “Is that why you avoided me all day?” My hold around her tightens as I bury my nose in her hair. How does she still smell like strawberries after sweating the whole night, I have no idea.

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