my back. How he was able to stay in the room when the stench was so vile, I had no idea.
The contractions eventually eased off again. I flushed the toilet once more and wiped my mouth with the fresh tissue Dane handed me. My shoulders drooping, I sat back on my haunches again. Feeling all hollowed out, I might have slumped to the tiled floor if Dane hadn’t steadied me.
“Here.” He gave me the bottle of water I’d earlier placed on my nightstand. “Don’t guzzle it down; take sips.”
Easy for him to say—the back of his throat wasn’t burning from bile. Still, I only took small sips of the water.
He rubbed a very gentle circle on my back. “The symptoms of stomach bugs and food poisoning are pretty similar.” He held up his phone for a moment, adding, “According to this website, you don’t need to go to Urgent Care or the ER unless you’ve got any of the symptoms listed. So far, the only one you have is the fever.”
My eyes fell closed. God, he’d Googled it. There was just something so endearing about it that my heart went all light and warm.
“I still think you should go to the ER.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need a doctor. I’ve had a bug before; I’ll be fine. But this is gonna be a rough night.” I blew out a shaky breath. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
He gave me a dark look. “You think I’d leave you when you’re sick?”
“What I think is that it reeks in here. No one would blame you for wanting fresh air or preferring to not watch someone hurl.”
“I’m staying.”
A cramp twisted my stomach again. I turned back to the toilet and heaved over and over and over. Until my stomach muscles ached.
I blinked my watery eyes and swayed toward the toilet, feeling shaky and depleted. “I forgot how much I hate being sick.”
“I really think you should see a doctor,” said Dane, concern creasing his brow.
I weakly shook my head. “Don’t need one.” What I needed was to stick close to this toilet.
His nostrils flared. “All right. But if you start showing any more of the food poisoning symptoms, I’m taking you to Urgent Care—I don’t give a damn what you say.”
“Agreed.” Another wave of nausea gripped my insides, and my stomach dry-heaved again. Fuck. “Go. Run. Save yourself.”
“I’m staying.”
I would have called him a masochist if another dry-heave hadn’t seized my insides.
Two days of nausea, vomiting, cramps, muscle aches, and diarrhea went by. And even though—against my wishes—he had a doctor come visit who asserted that I didn’t need to be hospitalized, Dane hovered around me like I was on my death bed. I was surprised he didn’t invite my family and friends here to “say their goodbyes” or something.
He insisted on working from home, as if leaving me would somehow worsen the stomach bug. In fact, he hardly left my side. I wouldn’t say he was sweet or sympathetic. He was gruff and bossy and curt, seeming a little out of his depth.
He kept flicking from one website to another, comparing lists of symptoms to be sure there was nothing he was missing. He felt positive it was food poisoning and was ready to call up the Italian restaurant until he read—again, on a website—that symptoms of food poisoning could take weeks to come on, so I could have caught it from any number of places. The doctor who came to visit had confirmed that.
Melinda, Wyatt, and Simon stopped by to see me, but Dane didn’t let them stay long, claiming I needed my rest. Which they all seemed to think was beyond cute, but they didn’t say as much to him. Nor did they comment on how much he needlessly faffed over me—ensuring I had drinks of water close by, keeping me covered with a blanket, handfeeding me crackers—like I couldn’t do anything for myself. It was pretty sweet, really.
Although the symptoms passed after two days, I was still groggy and felt like shit. I worked from home for the next few days. Dane, to my surprise, did the same.
By Sunday morning, I was fully recovered and raring to go back to work the next day. He got all snarly and surly. He thought it would be better if I took it easy for another week or so. I thought it would be better if he shoved that idea up his ass.