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I take hold of the hand on my shoulder and duck out from under his arm, careful not to jolt him.
Of all the times I’ve thought about holding Elliot’s hand lately, this is not how I ever imagined it might happen—me wearing just a T-shirt and underwear, him in boxers and a T-shirt, in a crappy hotel by a highway in rural Indiana, while he flinches with pain.
I carefully lower his hand to the bed, and he closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath.
“Fantastic,” I tell him. “You’ve done really well.”
“You sound like you’re congratulating a two-year-old on going potty by themselves.”
I fold my arms across my braless chest, suddenly aware the shape of my nipples is probably visible. “I wasn’t going to remind you that you were too tall to sleep in the chairs and that you should have taken the bed, because I didn’t think this was the time for I-told-you-so’s. But since you’re being ungrateful, I will.”
His body shakes a little with laughter, which is immediately followed by a wince.
“Do you think you can ease yourself down? Or should I call for a pulley system?”
His body rocks more. “Stop making me laugh.”
“Hurts, does it? I thought you were fine. Totally fine. Ready to take on some whitewater rafting and mountaineering.”
“Okay, okay. Stop. I admit, the laughing does make it twinge.” He puffs out a breath. “I’ll try to lie down.”
He bends his elbows into the weirdest version of a push-up I’ve ever seen, until his chest and belly are on the bed, then slowly hauls himself forward like a wounded caterpillar until his head almost reaches the pillows.
“See?” he asks into the covers. “Totally fine.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yes, all of that was completely normal.”
And now we’re both laughing. Him silently, as he tries to stop his body rocking against the bed, and me holding my stomach.
“Oh God, Elliot. I’m sorry. It’s not even remotely funny. You’re obviously in a lot of pain.”
As his body stills, he rests his cheek on the bed, facing away from me. “This honestly does feel better, though.”
“Great. But it’s not exactly a long-term solution.”
All I want is to help him, to drop everything else and focus on relieving his pain. But today’s task list is already almost impossible. Trying to figure out how to get the tech hub dried out and fixed up in time for the launch is a tall-enough order without having to figure out how to get its CEO vertical.
And as much as I could stand here all day admiring his bare legs, the way his boxers hug his butt, and the shape of his back and shoulders under the tight-fitting T-shirt, none of that is going to get me a fully functioning Elliot.
I grab my phone. “I’ll search for chiropractors. Maybe we can get one here lickety-split to fix you up.”
“No.” Elliot makes a sudden movement to turn over, then collapses onto his face, unable to prevent an ow from slipping out. “No chiropractors. I had one once who crunched me so badly it made things worse. Never again.”
“I imagine that was a freak one-off and not a reason to dismiss the entire chiropractic industry.”
He peers over his shoulder and points at me. “No chiropractors.”
“Okay. Well, what would you suggest?” I plant my hands on my hips, then realize it’s making my T-shirt rise higher up my thighs, so I tug it down at the sides instead. Not that it would be hard to step out of Elliot’s line of vision right now. “Should I see if I can rustle up some sort of traction? Or maybe wheel you around like it’s Weekend at Bernie’s?”
“I know exactly what the problem is. It’s my old baseball injury. I have a wonky quadratus lumborum.” He reaches around and drags his hand across his lower back. “Guess it couldn’t cope with the plane seats followed by the contorted sleeping arrangement.”
“And what do you usually do when it flares up?”
“I have a licensed massage therapist. She takes care of it.”
“Okay, then I’ll see if I can find one of those who can get here sharpish.”
I tap in “licensed massage therapists Plainsville Indiana” and scroll through the results.
