“Okay.”
His head tipped to the side, he studied my face and he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“You don’t look too good.”
Immediately a different, stupid, senseless, idiotic feminine trait reared its ugly head and I took affront.
“Thanks,” I snapped sarcastically.
His lips tipped up at the ends and he took a step toward me.
I took a step back.
He stopped, his brows twitching at my retreat then said, “I mean, you don’t look like you feel well.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I lied.
“And you don’t sound like you feel well.”
“This is how I sound normally,” I lied yet again.
“It isn’t how you sounded last night.”
“It’s morning, I just woke up. This is my waking up voice.”
“Your waking up voice sounds like you’ve got a sore throat and stuffed nose?”
I kept lying. “I have allergies.”
He looked out the windows then at me. “In snow?” I looked out the windows too and when he continued speaking I looked back at him. “Nothin’ alive in the ice out there that’ll mess with your allergies, Duchess.”
I decided to change the topic of conversation however I was becoming slightly concerned that I was getting lightheaded.
“How did I get here?” I asked him.
His head tipped to the side again and he asked back, “What?”
I pointed to myself and said, “Me,” then pointed to the floor, “here. How did get here?”
He looked at the floor I was pointing to, shook his head and muttered, “Shit.” Then he looked back at me and said, “You were out. Never saw anything like it. Figured you were fakin’.”
“I’m sorry?”
He took another step toward me and I took another step back. He stopped again, looked at my feet and then for some reason grinned. Then he looked back at me.
“I waited awhile, called the hotel to see if you’d checked in. They said no. I called a couple others. They said no too. So I went after you, thinkin’ maybe you got yourself into trouble. You did. I found your car in a ditch, you asleep in the back. I brought you and your shit to the house. You were out like a light, dead weight.” His torso twisted and he pointed to my suitcase which was on a comfortable looking armchair across the room then he twisted back to me. “Put you to bed, slept on the couch.”
I was definitely getting lightheaded, not only because of being sick but also because of what he just said. Therefore, in order not to fall down and make a right prat of myself, I skirted him, walked to the bed and sat down or, if I was honest, more like slumped down.
Then I looked up at him and asked, “You put me to bed?”
He’d turned to face me, his brows were drawn and he didn’t look amused anymore.
“You’re not okay,” he stated.
“You put me to bed?” I repeated.