Page 65 of Stirring Up Love
“Take them with food.”
“You want me to hide this in a banana like you’re a zoo animal? You know what? Don’t answer that.”
Cool fingers fiddled in his palm; then the pill was gone. He closed his eyes again—avoidance was one of the few tools in his meager arsenal. A click signaled the door opening. He shivered at the gust of cold and pulled the covers up around himself.
He’d been trying to convince her she needed him. But at this point he was deadweight. His chances of winning her over had taken a nosedive from improbable to downright impossible the second he tumbled off that ledge into the water. He shook his head at his own foolishness, and a cough racked through his body.
He was a screwup. A tagalong at best—and now, a liability.
At some point, she’d piled pillows under him like he was some sort of an invalid.Hurry, Pa, Finn’s got a fever, fetch the doc!He laughed, which shifted his pulse to pound in his temples instead. But he had to admit, the angle was ... nice. Comforting, even. And if he didn’t move, or breathe, being upright eased the disaster stewing in his skull.
At least she hadn’t rummaged in his bag again. But how would she know unzipping his bag was an invasion of the only private space he’d ever been able to count on? It was sweet of her to bring him clothes, especially when the alternative was marching out half-naked, which would’ve given her the wrong idea.
But if prancing around nude gave her the idea he was into her, kissing her confirmed it.
His fists bunched the blanket, and he fought down another cough, wincing at the pain in his chest and the memory of her shutting down after their kiss. Less than an hour after his vow to keep things purely business, he’d caved to his desires. Clearly this road trip had been a bad strategy. The sooner they got some space from each other, the better.
He pushed down the covers with pricking hands and willed his legs to swing off the couch, his feet finally hitting the floor with a thud that reverberated like an echo chamber in his skull. He had on one sneaker when the door swung open. Words were too much, so he lifted his foot into the other shoe, panting.
“Where are you planning to go, Superman?”
“You’ve gotta be back home soon.” His voice lurched out like the sliding of gravel down a hillside. “Can’t have you missing your sister’s party.”
“And if we head out tomorrow, we’ll make it.” Her breathing sounding strained, and he looked up to find her chin holding a lidded coffee cup in place atop what looked like an armful of snack bar. She squatted down in a slow plié like a ballet dancer, back straight, to deposit the load of fruit, granola bars, and crackers onto the coffee table. “But we can’t go anywhere right now.”
It was sad, and pitiful, and clearly a fever delusion, but his heart warmed at the word “we.”
“You,” she said, and his heart whimpered, “are going to stay in bed. Recuperating.” She set down the cup and picked up the banana, peeling it. “As much as I might joke, you’re no good to me dead, Finn.”
Technically untrue. A dead Finn would solve a lot of her problems. “I’m no good to you alive either.” He rubbed a palm over his face, remembering the pill. The room was spinning, but that could’ve been the slow effects of poison or the fever. Hard to tell ... “Which means you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Or you like me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her answer came quick, like she’d rehearsed. “I’m making sure you don’t die on my watch because a murder investigation would be a huge time suck.”
His laughter turned into a cough, demolishing his throat with stabs of pain, but his good mood remained. Something was really wrong with him if he thought her prickly sarcasm was cute, but he did. Really cute.
Simone set the half-peeled banana on the dresser and pulled something out of the bag, then tossed it into his lap. He picked it up and shook out the fabric, eyebrows tugging together when he saw what it was. “Cactus pants?”
“Pajama pants.” Covered in tiny saguaro cactuses. “It’s what normal humans wear for lounging.”
“You bought me pants.” He tried and failed to keep the awe out of his voice. “With cactuses.” Like they had a history. A backstory. Inside jokes.
“Cacti.” She fought to keep a smile off her face, and it only made him grin harder. “And stop making it sound like such a big deal. You packed the contents of a Levi’s store and nothing else. Sleeping in jeans sucks.”
As much as he wanted to disagree, the rough fabric on his overheated skin was murder. “Well, thanks. But I won’t be needing them today. Because we’re leaving.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
“Finn, you’re feverish and clearly delusional if you think I want to trust my life to you on the freeway in your current state.” He narrowed his eyes, but she kicked his sneakers out of reach. “And if you say you’ll just be a passenger, fine and good, but I can’t drive twenty hours straight with no sleep. I know my limitations. So, we stay and you rest, because if I wind up missing Alisha’s bachelorette party, you’ll wish the cold killed you.”
Glaring at her—for what, he wasn’t certain anymore, but old habits die hard—he stood up, wobbled for a second, and puttered off to the bathroom, ridiculous pants in hand. Once inside the bathroom, he let out the cough he’d been holding in, doubling over.
“Heard that,” Simone called from the other side of the door, and his coughs turned into a chuckle. Which hurt, a lot.
He shucked off the jeans—stiff and scratchy—and pulled on the pajama pants. Literal heaven. He could live in these pants forever. He could die in them.
Speaking of death ... he met his reflection in the tiny square medicine cabinet mirror. Wished he hadn’t. Scruff covered his jaw, and his eyes were rimmed with red, his nose a ringer for Rudolph’s. His hair looked like his mother had mated with a werewolf, and he had the complexion of an anemic vampire.
