Page 76 of Wild Card
“I’m really, really tired.” He shakes his head almost sadly. “Like exhausted. Gwen, I’m justsotired.” His voice cracks, and it does nothing to convince me that he’s okay.
“That’s okay. You just have to honor that. You’re allowed to be tired. It’s normal to be tired.”
He nods this time but makes no other motions.
“Here.” I reach down, sliding my hand over his, linking our fingers. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to rest.”
He turns now, dangerously dark eyes peering into mine from over his shoulder. They look tortured. Hedoeslook tired. And downtrodden and…sad.
“You got this,” I say softly, not sure what’s wrong, only knowing that I would do anything to make him feel better.
“I don’t know if I do,” he says back, voice rough like gravel. It makes my chest ache.
“I’ve got you, then,” I murmur, giving him a tug as I turn away to lead him upstairs.
I expect him to resist. But he doesn’t.
He follows.
The fact that he stilldoesn’t remove his boots sets me on edge. I may not know him all that well, but I know he would neverwalk through his beautiful home—across these meticulously finished hardwoods—with a pair of work boots on.
I stop and turn to him. “Sit,” I say, pointing at the stairs.
He looks stunned, but he complies and drops to a step stiffly. I swallow the lump in my throat before coming to kneel before him. Silently, I lift his foot and unlace the leather boot. I can feel him watching me, but he doesn’t speak. My palm squeezes his ankle as I set the boot aside and move on to the next one, one hand massaging rhythmically at his muscled calf while my fingers deftly weave through the tight laces.
With both boots set neatly on the mat, I reset the alarm and take him by the hand again, urging him to stand.
We walk up the stairs, hand in hand, and straight to his bedroom. I lead him over to the bed and give him a gentle push, forcing him to sit while I click on the bedside lamp before turning to study him more closely.
Dark smudges beneath his eyes make them appear even darker than they already are. The shadow of his stubble makes his cheeks look just a little extra hollow. Even his hair doesn’t look as perfectly gelled as usual. In fact, it appears entirely unbrushed.
Without thinking, I reach up and cup the side of his face. His eyes flutter shut, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Softly, I let my fingers trail over the ridge of his cheekbone, before fluttering over his temple, and then trailing behind his ear.
“Have you been sleeping?”
He opens his eyes. “Not much” is his gruff response. “It just hasn’t come to me. Probably sick.”
This big strong man who shows up for everyone around him, who always does the right thing, looks beaten down, and I can’t handle it.
I give him a firm nod and squeeze his calloused hand as I take in the room around me. The expansive bed with crisp, white sheets. The mountain-scape art on the walls. The plush chair in the corner, tucked beside a standing lamp with built-in bookshelves surrounding it. The perfect spot to curl up with a book.
“I’ll be right back.”
I move to leave, but his hand squeezes mine harder, a silent plea for me to stay. “Hey.” I squeeze back, bending at the hips to try and meet his gaze. “You change and get into bed. I’m coming right back.”
His responding nod is stiff as his fingers slowly go slack. It has me peeking back over my shoulder at him curiously as I walk away. The sight of him looking so small and defeated on the edge of his bed twists my heart. I get the sense that he needs me right now, so I make haste.
I leave the room and head to mine, searching for any tools I can think of that will help him relax. Because I don’t think Bash is sick—I think Bash is burned out.
When I get back to his room, he’s under the covers, flat on his back, hands laid over his stomach, almost like a corpse, while he stares up at the ceiling.
I swallow down my anxiety at seeing him like this, looking so detached. It makes me wonder what he saw while he was away that pushed him to this point.
Quietly, I set up my Bluetooth speaker and turn on my favorite calming playlist—Tibetan singing bowls.
“Gwen,” he sighs my name like it means something. Like he knows he should tell me to stop but can’t bring himself to.
“Bash,” I reply, my way of telling him to back off about it and let me take care of him. Because someone needs to.
