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“They must look up to you.”
She snorts. “They resented me when they were young.”
Because I’m so close to my family, that sounds very sad. “Why would they resent you?”
“Had to make them do their homework and clean their rooms and eat their broccoli.” She places a hand on her belly. “Ooo.”
“You okay?” I roll my head to the side to look at her. Her forehead glistens in the rays of early evening sunlight streaking through the window. “Going to vom again?”
Her face screws up for a second. Then she lets out a loud burp. “That’s better.”
I chuckle to myself. But if I needed a sign she’s becoming less aware of what’s going on, that’s it right there. Fully compos mentis Charlotte would be horrified to burp in front of anyone in the workplace.
“Why did you have to make your brothers behave? Did your parents work a lot?”
She presses her lips together as if there might be a tricky thought process going on inside that beautiful sweaty head and she’s deciding whether to answer.
“Parent,” she says, emphasizing the T with the exaggerated clarity of a drunk person. “Singular.”
“Just your mom, then?”
“Dad.” Her eyes flutter under their closed lids. “Mom ran off.”
That sounds like way too personal a story to ask about while she doesn’t have a full grip on what’s happening.
“So your brothers thought you were trying to be their mom, rather than their sister?”
“Hmm…” Her hand slides from her belly and hits the floor right next to mine, her silky sleeve coming to rest against my bare forearm.
In seconds, my arm warms with the heat from hers. My heart rate picks up with the knowledge that if I moved my hand just a tiny fraction, I could stroke her fingers.
But I resist the urge, the overwhelming urge. If I’m ever going to hold Charlotte’s hand, which I’m probably not, I’ll do it when she’s fully awake and in possession of all her faculties.
“Are you asleep?” I whisper. My breath rebounds off her cheek and back onto my own face.
Another, but this time barely audible, hmm sneaks out of her.
I need to get this woman home.
Every part of my being is desperate to stay this close to her for as long as possible, to soak up the one chance I might ever get to lie next to her like this.
But she needs to wash her face, brush her teeth, get into bed, and sleep off this food poisoning.
I push myself to my feet. Feeling instantly cooler, I roll down my shirt sleeves and make my way to my desk.
A couple taps on my phone connect me to the car company we use.
As I give the booking agent my details, Charlotte rolls onto her side and curls up into the fetal position. “No.” Her eyes remain shut. “Can’t get up. Will puke.”
“We have a vehicle just around the corner, Mr. Dashwood,” the agent says. “Will be with you in six minutes.”
“Perfect, thanks.”
I hang up, put on my jacket, and drop my cuff links and phone in my pocket.
“No need to get up,” I tell Charlotte as I toss her bag over my shoulder and make my way back toward her.
“You can stay perfectly horizontal.” I crouch down beside her, scoop one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lift her up as carefully as if I were trying not to wake a sleeping child.
