I didn’t suddenly feel like I was about to black out.
“How can I help? Do you need, um, clothes? Or can I help you get into bed?”
Don’t think about Zoey in my bed. Don’t think about Zoey in my bed.
“Give me a sec,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on her until the black dots disappear from my vision.
“Did I call you?” I ask.
“You texted me,” she says, peeking through her fingers.
“How long have you been here?” Hopefully not long enough for me to humiliate myself.
“A few hours.”
Plenty of time, then. I don’t even want to ask anything else. She’s still here. She hasn’t run screaming from the house. But she does still have her hands covering her eyes. I find her modesty totally adorable.
“Let me get dressed,” I say.
“I’ll get you some fresh water. Ice?”
The fever must be creeping back up, because I could lie down on a block of ice right now. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
A faint smile tugs at her lips as she moves to the door, still covering her eyes. And I swear I hear her mutter, “Not anymore than you’ve already been.”
That does not bode well.
I slip into boxer briefs and a thin pair of running shorts, practically falling into bed before Zoey returns. I cover myself with the sheet because my teeth are chattering. But then I’m hot again, and the material hurts my skin. This must be bad—I can’t remember ever feeling my skin hurt before.
“Gavin? You decent?”
“Yes.”
Zoey walks into my bedroom, and despite the fever and my hurting skin and the brain fog, I could get used to this. Seeing her walk into the room wearing a shirt of mine that hangs almost down to her knees.
But why is she wearing my clothes?
Zoey comes over to my side of the bed, setting down a glass and a bottle of pain relievers next to my reading glasses. My reading glasses! A sure sign of the fact that I’m basically her grandpa. Feeble and sick and having to hold restaurant menus three feet in front of my face if I want to read them. Whatever chance I might have thought I could have with this woman is gone.
Her look moves to one of concern. “Are you feeling worse? Your teeth are chattering.”
I want to be a pillar of strength. To beat my chest and lift her over my head in some show of manliness. Instead, my teeth chatter even harder and I try to pull the sheets up again, hissing when they drag over the bare skin of my chest.
Nope. No sign of manliness here. I’m a big man-baby. And I can’t even fight it.
“Everything hurts,” I manage to whimper, solidifying my place as a man Zoey will never see as attractive. Whimpering is cute on puppies. On grown men? It’s shameful. Maybe I should ask her to take me out back and put me out of my misery.
But her eyes soften, and she goes from awkwardly shifting on her bare feet next to my bed to sitting beside me. She runs a hand over my forehead, pushing back my hair, and I can’t even help it. I moan.
I’ll be embarrassed about this tomorrow. I’ll sell the company outright without ever going in to have to see her again as soon as I’m better. But for now, I cannot help myself. I lean into her touch and demand, “More.”
Zoey smiles. “Okay. But first, let’s get some medicine in you to lower this fever. Can you sit up a little?”
I really can’t, and Zoey has to slide a hand on the back of my neck, down between my shoulder blades, pulling me up. It’s awkward, but she manages to get two pills in my mouth and I manage to resist the urge to kiss her fingertips, retaining the only shred of dignity I have left. She presses the glass of water to my mouth. It hurts to swallow but the cold water feels amazing sliding down my throat.
Zoey gently leans me back on the pillows and sets the glass on the table. “Better?”
I nod, but I won’t be better until she’s running her hands through my hair again. She makes no move to do so, looking instead like she’s going to bolt.
Knowing how much I’ll hate myself tomorrow, I say, “Please, Zoey?”
With a tiny nod, she settles in beside me and begins dragging her hands through my hair again. If I were a cat—a big, predatory jungle one, of course, not a house