Page 116 of Snowed In
“You need water and rest,” I say. “You’re just going to be miserable if you have to travel right now. Believe me. Give it the morning.”
“Megan—”
I put my hands on my hips, staring down at him until he sighs.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m going to get you some painkillers and something to eat.”
“I’m never eating anything ever again.”
“You have to eat.”
“I beg to disagree.”
He turns his body away from me in a realcan’t see you, can’t see memove, but I’m already leaving him, heading back down to the kitchen, where I throw some plain crackers onto a plate and grab a large mixing bowl and some kind of fruity sports drink. I add them all to a tray I find next to the sink and carry them back up along with a glass of water.
Christian hasn’t moved an inch when I return, and he watches with groggy eyes as I set everything on the bedside table.
“What’s the bowl for?” he asks.
“It’s in case you throw up.”
I might as well have told him he was going to die. “This isn’t happening.”
“You might not,” I say. “Can you sit up?”
“Of course, I can sit up,” he says hotly. But he doesn’t. I bite back a smile.
“You’re like a kitten,” I tell him as I ease a pillow under his neck. “Like a little newborn kitten.”
“Megan.”
My name is a warning, but I’m having far too much fun with him like this. I wish he wasn’t feeling like shit, but knowing how embarrassed he’ll be when he gets better makes it very funny to me.
“You shouldn’t even be in here,” he says, as he pops the two pills into his mouth. “You’ll get sick too.”
“You can’t catch a migraine, genius.”
“I might have the flu,” he points out. “If I have the flu, then you’ll get the flu. That’s how viruses work.”
“Except I get my flu shot every year,” I say sweetly. “And you don’t have the flu because, believe me, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now if you did. I know it sucks, but in all seriousness, you just need to rest and let me look after you.”
“Don’t look at me at all,” he mutters. “If I look how I feel, I don’t want you looking at me.”
“I like looking at you,” I say absently, and he goes very, very still. “I mean—”
I rear back as he sits up, his expression carefully blank.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I need a shower.”
“You need to lie down.”
“I feel like my skin is made of sweat and pain, and if I’m going to sleep away the whole morning like you want me to, then I’d like to do it feeling more like myself.”
He sits at the edge of the mattress for a long second and then pushes himself up, swaying slightly. Besides a T-shirt, he’s only in boxer shorts. Black, silky boxer shorts that my eyes are immediately drawn to as he staggers over to his bag and pulls out a sweater. When he heads to the bathroom next, I follow, concerned he might be weaker than he looks. But my caring nurse act must be edging into hovering because he makes it to the door in one piece before turning to face me.
