Page 115 of Snowed In
I abandon the bag as I go back over to his side.
“Christian?” This time I say his name gently, and when he still doesn’t answer, I drop to my knees beside him and give him a proper shake. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his forehead twists into the most god-awful frown, which might be funny if I wasn’t so worried.
“What the hell, Meg?” he grouses, and I blink at the familiar nickname. He must have heard Aidan use it.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just have a headache.”
Or a fever. I press my hand against his forehead to make sure, and he leans into it, the frown lines smoothing as he seeks my touch.
“Keep that there,” he mumbles.
“You don’t have a temperature.” But he does look pale.
I sit back, ignoring his noise of protest when I stop touching him, and glance over my shoulder as the sun streams through the window.
“Go back to bed,” he says. “It’s early.”
“It’s not early. We were supposed to be on the road thirty minutes ago.”
He doesn’t answer, and I twist back to him, finally admitting what’s staring me right in the face.
“You’re sick.”
He cracks open an eyelid, peering at me blearily. “I’m fine.”
This time when I press a hand against his forehead, he turns away because, apparently, being told you’re ill is the worst thing you can say to a man.
“I’m not sick,” he says into his pillow. “It’s just a headache.”
“Or a migraine,” I tell him. And a bad one at that. The man looks like he’s at death’s door, and disappointment crashes through me when I realize what that means.
“There’s no way we’ll be home for lunch.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “You want to go home? I’ll take you home.”
“Christian—”
“I’m up. See?” He shifts in the bed, trying to get the covers off, and I quickly push him back down.
“You need to rest,” I tell him. “You can’t drive us back like this, and I can only drive automatic. We’ll go back after lunch if you’re feeling better, and if you’re not, I’ll get Andrew to come up and collect us.”
“Just tell him to come get me now.”
“So you can throw up a million times in the car back? How are you even going to get down the stairs?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Oh yeah? Lift your head for me.”
“What?”
“Lift your head.”
He glares up at me but otherwise doesn’t move other than a weak twitch that was probably all the effort he could give.
Christ.
