Page 73 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“What? No,” I grumble, wiping my (only slightly) watery eyes with the back of my hand. “I have allergies.”
She reaches out to touch my arm, like one would comfort a crying child. “Men are allowed to cry, Gage. It’s okay.”
My heart begins to rev at an off-road kind of speed, and that cinnamon scent synonymous with her embraces me, as fresh as the aroma of oven-baked cinnamon rolls. Like I’ve said a million times before—she’s perfect. From her head of fire to her black-painted toes. She insists she looks unattractive right now, but I don’t see it. Not one bit.
“You know, I’m regretting saving you from the bathroom,” I mutter.
“If you regret it so much, then why does it look like a cloudthrew up in my room?” she asks, gesturing to the white string of lights and the very girly products strewn over her quilted bedspread.
“It’s my charity for the day.”
She makes this little huffing noise that’s still scratchy with sleep, and I know this is the last thing I should be thinking about, but it sends a direct line of arousal straight to my dick.
Dude, read the room.
“Considering I almost died today, I think you should be a lot nicer to me,” she declares, turning her nose up with a fake—yet entirely irresistible—pout.
Since I’d self-exiled myself to my own side of the bed, I scoot a little closer, still very much aware of the invisible delineation that exists between us. “Actually, sinceIsavedyourlife, you should be a lot nicer tome.”
When she glowers at me, butterflies tight-fist my gut, and a smile blusters over my face. But it’s not a deliberate smile—I mean, it is. It’s involuntary. As natural to me as breathing. Maybe I’m just permanently smiling whenever I’m with Cali.
“Thisisme being nice to you,” she snaps in her “nice” voice, rearing her arm back to hit me somewhere on my body—it’s a surprise every time—but she winces and groans before she can do any real damage. She leans her head back against the headboard, gripping her lower belly and performing some weird breathing technique to get through the pain.
I hate seeing her in pain. I’d do anything in the world to make her pain go away.
I quickly lean over and grab the Tylenol on her nightstand, along with a glass of cold water I brought in for her while she was sleeping. “Please take some Tylenol for me. You’ll feel better once you do.”
I pop off the lid of the pill bottle and dump three small tablets into my palm, then hand them off to her. She throws theminto her mouth without any protest—which I’m thankful for—chasing the dry capsules down with a hearty gulp of ice water.
She mumbles out a quiet thanks, seeming the slightest bit relieved that the healing process has begun, and her fingers continue to rub the crux of the pain just below her navel.
Since I’m not putting all my trust in the Tylenol, I grab the rolled-up heating pad and hand it to her. “I know you probably already have one, but I got this for you.”
She takes it and looks up at me, and I can’t tell if the tears in her eyes are from the gift or the cramps. “You got me a heating pad?” she exclaims in disbelief.
“Of course I did.”
Cali’s eyes scan all the gifts on her bed. When her gaze connects with the half-melted milkshake sitting in a bowl I scavenged from the cupboard, a gasp rises in her chest, stuck somewhere between her throat and her mouth. “You remembered.”
I remember everything about you.
“Vanilla’s an easy flavor to remember,” I say casually, brushing it off as I tuck my arms behind my head and lean back against the headboard.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and I don’t know what it is about this particular smile, but this is the one that knocks the breath out of my lungs. It’s not big enough to show teeth, but it does make her nose scrunch up, and there’s no gloss or ostentatious color to tarnish the natural beauty of her lips.
I want her to smile at me like that all the time.
The blood rushing in my ears sounds like the ocean, there’s sweat breaking out on my hairline, and my stomach keeps doing nauseating handsprings whenever she glances my way.
All I have the brain power to say is “Mm-hm.” Definitely not calm, cool, or collected anymore. More like panicking, panicking, PANICKING.
Cali opens her mouth to say something, but she’s interrupted when she crunches over again in pain, this time clenching her teeth together and emitting a tiny whimper.
My back snaps straight, and I immediately reach for the heating pad in her hand. “You need to turn it on,” I say, but as I go to grab it from her, she swats my hand away.
“I’m fine. It’s not that bad,” she lies.
“It’s not fine. You were on the fucking bathroom floor when I found you.”
