Rogue Beast (The Rourkes #12) - Kylie Gilmore Page 0,72

the tech side; the writers take notes on what worked and didn’t. They revise the script right after. They need me.” She collapses into bed.

“I’ll call Josie and she’ll explain.”

“Just give me half an hour,” she says weakly. “I’m tough. I’ll power through.”

“Has anyone ever told you to stop acting tough?”

“No. I’m so tired.” She rolls to her side.

“Do you want to give the entire cast, crew, and writers this virus you’ve got?”

She sighs. “No.”

“I’m calling you in sick. It’s probably a twenty-four-hour thing. Most stomach viruses are, according to the internet.”

“’K.”

I leave her to rest in bed, adjusting the bedroom curtains to keep out the light. Then I go to the living room to call Josie and explain.

“Oh no, that’s terrible,” she says. “Should I send chicken soup?”

“I’ll get some for her. I’m sure she’ll be okay by tomorrow.”

“Okay, keep me posted. And if you get sick, let me know. I’ll get your mom over there.”

I smile. Notice how she didn’t volunteer. “Thanks.”

Once Harper’s awake, I’ll change the sheets and clean up the bathroom for her. In the meantime, I help myself to coffee and a piece of toast. Then I remember her guard. I’ll stop by his apartment in a bit and let him know what’s up.

She might not want me to take care of her, but I’m not leaving until she’s better.

Harper

I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my kitchen with Garrett, slurping down chicken soup. I feel like I got run over by a truck, but at least the virus seems to be done with me. About twenty hours of wretchedness. It’s late Monday night now, and I’m hoping, after a good night’s sleep, I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow.

“I can’t believe you stuck around,” I say. “And you cleaned. That’s saint territory. Really, you didn’t have to do all that.”

“I take care of those I love.”

My head whips toward his, my heart pounding.

He smiles. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“We haven’t been dating that long.”

“Little over a month, but I feel like we’ve really gotten to know each other.”

I stare at the counter, checking in with my gut. No warning flags go up. I do love him. My throat clogs with emotion, and I can’t seem to get the words out.

“You don’t have to say anything back,” he says.

I lift my head and clear my throat. “I do feel something for you. It’s just hard for me.”

“Sure, I understand. Just baggage. Your exes. Men, in general.”

“I’ll get there. Don’t you have any baggage?”

“Not really. Things have always been clear to me. It’s either working or it’s not. This right here feels like it’s working. More than that, it’s special. You think I clean just anyone’s bathroom?”

“No.” My voice comes out small.

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“I know. God, I’m so sorry. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You think you’ll make it to work tomorrow?”

“I have to. Besides, I’m better.”

“You’ve barely eaten your soup. You look like a strong breeze would knock you over.”

“I’ll power through.” I kiss him. “Thank you for everything.”

He smiles, his eyes warm on mine. “You’re welcome.”

After our meal, which was just soup and crackers for me (he had grilled chicken and vegetables), we settle on the sofa to watch a movie. I let him pick, and I’m surprised he puts on a Star Trek movie.

“You’re a Trekkie?” I ask.

“I like space movies, all kinds. It’s like the last place you see a renegade hero. Everywhere else is just same old.”

“Sort of like westerns used to be with the rugged cowboy living life on his own terms.”

“Exactly.”

I snuggle up against his side, feeling more content than I can remember. “I think I love you too,” I whisper.

He kisses my hair. “I know it.”

I’m too tired to worry about what this all means for our future, so I let myself lean on him and soak in the moment.

I’m getting ready for bed later that night when Garrett rushes into the bathroom. “Out!” he barks, rushing to the toilet.

I don’t make it all the way out the door before he pukes up his dinner. Oh God. I rush back to the sink and throw up mine. The sound of his retching triggered my gag reflex. I quickly rinse and rush out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

I can still hear him in there, and nausea rises in my throat. I escape to the living room. I’m not sick. It’s empathy vomit. This is bad. Now if I try to take care of him