Page 91 of To Love or to Lose
He opens the door, and I take my key card from him before stepping into our room. “I am not going to die in my sleep, and Ido notneed a doctor.”
The line has been drawn between us, yet again.
I go to shut the door right in his face, no longer wanting to engage in conversation with him. His hand flies through the gap of the door though, and he pries it open.
“Not so fast, I’m staying here too, remember?” He grabs my wrist as he steps into the room. “I’m going to make sure you don’t fall asleep. Lay down and I’ll wait with you until the doctor gets here.”
I hesitate, but lower myself so I’m sitting on the bed. My head feels much clearer now that Jameson Beaumont isstanding in the hotel room with me, but the pounding is much more noticeable.
I try not to wince. “Tomorrow is the last day we're skiing. Shouldn’t you be studying up on how to ski or something?”
“If I don’t know it by now, I’m not going to know it by tomorrow.” He shrugs, sitting in the rolling chair by the desk in the corner of the room.
“Slow learner?” I tease.
He doesn’t even crack a smile, but he looks amused. “No, I already know everything there is to know about skiing, now it's just about applying it.” He rolls the chair closer to the edge of the bed where I sit. “Lay down.”
Normally, I would never listen to Jameson so easily, but my head is pounding and lying down actually sounds really nice. So I do. My head hits the pillow and against my will, my eyes fall shut.
I feel a pinch on my calf and my eyes shoot open again. “Stay awake, Genevieve. The doctor should be here soon.”
“Wake me up when they get here,” I mumble, but Jameson grabs my arm, pulling me into a sitting position. Now, I’m angry. “You realize that keeping someone awake when they possibly have a concussion has zero benefits. If anything, you should let me sleep so that any brain damage can be healed.”
“There is no way for me to monitor possible brain damage when you are asleep. I’m not saying you can’t sleep, just wait until a doctor checks you.”
“When will the doctor be here, then?” My hands are shaking, and my head is throbbing. I feel like I’m milliseconds away from passing out.
“Soon,” he says, and I can tell he sees right through me. Jameson sees how much pain I’m in, and I can’t even pretend that he doesn’t.
I grip the back of my head, running my fingers through my hair and pulling at the end of the strands. My eyes are squeezed shut.
God, my head hurts.
“Come here,” Jameson waves me toward him as he rolls closer in the chair.
Confusion paralyzes me. “Huh?”
“Come closer, Genevieve.” My skepticism is obvious, but I hesitantly scoot forward, edging toward the furthest corner of the bed.
He stands from the chair, pushing it so it rolls back toward the corner where it belongs. Then, he sits next to me on the bed. I look at him, my vision blurring. The dizziness is taking over. Jameson slides toward me, so I slide further away from him.
His hands reach up to my head, and I try to pull away. “Let me help.”
“What are you talking about? I thought we were waiting for the doctor.”
I try to focus on one of the paintings on the walls because it feels like my heart is going to burst out of my chest with how fast it’s beating. It doesn’t help, and now it’s like my blood is running cold.
Yet my body is soaring, and my skin is warming with every touch Jameson makes.
His fingers reach up from my goosebump covered arms to my head. His hands are resting on either side of my face, and his middle and pointer finger start to massage my temples.My body reacts on its own terms, and I fight the urge to moan in relief as I lean into Jameson’s hold. His hands are warm, his fingers callused as they work against the side of my forehead.
I feel the metal of his wristwatch skim my jawline.
“Better?” he asks tauntingly, knowing he’s helping me tremendously. When I don’t respond, he removes his hands. “I’ll stop, then.”
I want to beg him to keep going. The throbbing in my head is already returning. I wince at the pressure pulsing against my frontal lobe and try to use my own hands to ease the pain.
But I’m not as strong as Jameson—not physically, at least. My hands aren’t as rough, and I can’t do anything to stop the pounding in my head.
