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Nothing.
No way in hell am I leaving her to sleep on the floor.
I get to my feet and tap on the door. “Can I come in?”
Nothing.
“Charlotte? I’m coming in. Okay?”
I open the door a crack. Still no response.
“I’m coming in.”
And there she is. Curled up on her right side on the shiny white tile floor, using an arm as a pillow.
Wearing just a white bra and her black skirt.
Her top lies in a crumpled heap by one of her shoes. The other shoe is next to her head.
A virtually topless Charlotte was not what I was expecting.
She looks fast asleep.
Her fair skin gleams in the bright overhead light, its only blemish a mole behind her left shoulder.
Even if I’d thought I’d ever be fortunate enough to see Charlotte without her top on, in a million lifetimes this is not how I would have imagined it happening.
I pause for a second, unsure how to handle this. She’s my brother’s assistant, for fuck’s sake. And I have to somehow get her half-naked, delirious body off the floor and into bed without sparking an HR incident.
The sight of her so very vulnerable and defenseless fills me with an overwhelming need to protect her. It’s a new feeling. I mean, I’ve cared about people. But this desire to look after her, to tend to her every need until she’s better…that’s different.
When she was a teenager taking care of her brothers, who took care of her? When was the last time anyone took care of her? Thank God I’m here to do it now, and I intend to do it better than anyone else has before.
I crouch down and pull back the hair that’s fallen out of her bedraggled ponytail and stuck to her face.
“Why were you getting undressed?” I whisper.
“Was hot.” She runs the words together, barely moving her lips.
I test the temperature of her forehead again. She is still a bit clammy, but not as much as earlier. Hopefully she’s got enough of the poisoned dumplings out of her system to be on the mend.
The contents of the toilet catch my eye. Ew. I reach over Charlotte and flush it.
“Okay, sleepy puky head. Let’s get you to bed.”
I slide my arms between the deadweight of her body and the floor and scoop her into my arms. Who’d have thought I would ever do that once in my entire life, never mind twice in one evening?
She nestles against me with a grunt and rests a hand on my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. What a shame she’s doing it only while not fully aware.
I carry her the half-dozen steps from the bathroom, past the kitchen and her sofa, and toward her bed.
Knocking back the duvet with a foot, I lay her down as if she were a container of volatile liquid. Which I guess she kind of is. The last thing I want is to disturb that belly too much and kick off the puking cycle all over again.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Better.”
“Yup, much better than the cold, hard floor.”
I can’t just leave her in her bra and skirt and cover her up. That would be incredibly uncomfortable.
