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“Hush, baby. I knew from the first day that you weren’t involved, remember? Even before I knew you, I knew that much. I trust you, and I’m not going to let anyone else doubt you either.”
I wasn’t sure how he was going to accomplish that without tipping people off that I was more than an employee and a family friend, but it was still really nice to hear. “You trust me that much?”
Thatcher’s gaze snapped up to mine. “With my life. Never doubt it. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.” He leaned in close, his lips ghosted against mine?—
And the fucking monitor began blaring an alarm twice as loud as it had before, complete with a flashing red light like a police siren. Thatcher sprang off the bed.
“Is the machine trying to induce a cardiac event?” I grumble-coughed.
“I think this monitor might be malfunc—oh!” A cheerful older nurse pulled back the privacy curtain. “Look who’s awake!” She glanced from me to Thatcher, then frowned. “Mr. Pennington, I thought the doctor told you that you need to wear a mask in the patient’s room. Antivirals taken prophylactically are only eighty percent effective, you know.”
“I took it off out in the hall,” Thatcher said apologetically. He grabbed one from a container hanging on the wall. “I’ll keep this one on.”
“See that you do.” The nurse took my vitals while delivering a good-natured lecture on infection control protocols.
If that wasn’t enough to thoroughly kill any hope of Thatcher kissing me again, she also took me on a field trip to use the bathroom. One quick look at myself in the mirror had me hoping like hell Thatcher was under the influence of new-love blinders. By the time she helped me back to bed, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, and my head wasn’t much better.
“Cockblocked by my cardiac monitor,” I muttered when the kind lady left to get me some crackers and water. “That might be the title of my autobiography.”
Thatcher, sitting in a chair a respectable distance from my bed, was busy typing something on his phone. “Please don’t say cock. There will be no cock on the menu for a couple of months,” he decreed. I made a squawking noise, and when he glanced up at me, his eyes softened and heated. “Okay, one month. But that’s as much as I’m willing to concede.”
“What? Why?” I sounded petulant, but I was blaming the flu.
“Because I’m going to make sure you get well. Starting by having McGee bring you some soup from the restaurant down the street.” Thatcher slid his phone away, leaned forward, and picked up my hand with both of his. “You scared me,” he said baldly. “I never want to see you that sick again.”
I ran my other hand through his hair gently. “I’m sorry.”
Thatcher shot me a glare. “Don’t apologize for something you had no control over.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, “Dealing with me right after dealing with Brant and handling the Layla thing… I am sorry I worried you.”
Thatcher leaned even closer and pressed his hand over my masked mouth to shut me up. “Apologize again and find out what happens,” he growled. “If you don’t want to worry me, you’ll focus on getting better, baby, and understand why we will not be having sex for—” I parted my lips and traced my tongue along Thatcher’s palm through my mask. His eyes dilated. “Two weeks,” he said in a choked voice. “And that’s final.”
I grinned. When you were madly in love with a billionaire business tycoon, it paid to master the art of negotiation… especially when it came to sex. I was pretty sure that by the time I was actually well enough to actually consider doing the deed, I’d manage to shave off another week or more. A little bubble of joy welled up inside of me at the idea that Thatcher and I would be together long enough for that to be an option.
I removed his hand from my face and cradled it in both of mine. “You’re not a bad bet,” I said softly.
“Oh no?” His eyes studied me intently over his mask. “I’m eighteen years older than you?—”
“Eighteen years more experienced,” I countered. “In all the best ways.”
Thatcher’s eyes flared. “I’m controlling. I don’t know if I can change that?—”
“I like you bossy,” I blurted.
His intense stare softened. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” I breathed.
“Hold that thought for another… ten days, minimum,” Thatcher instructed. He cleared his throat. “I’m also way too committed to my job—at least, I have been. That’s something I’m going to change, but I might slip up from time to time?—”
I squeezed his hand tightly. “The work Pennington Industries does is valuable, Thatcher. The technology you develop makes people’s lives better in a billion little ways. And you have hundreds—thousands—of employees and contractors and investors whose livelihoods depend on the company staying profitable. That’s important. I would never want to interfere?—”
He shook his head. “It is important, but it’s not more important to me than you. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way over the last couple of days.” He reached up with his free hand to brush my hair off my forehead. “You know, I was already planning to leave Honeybridge this morning, before I heard you were sick.”
“Really?” I frowned. “But the Investment Summit?—”
“I don’t give a shit about that Summit, Reagan. I’d been so damn stubborn, and by the time I realized how much I needed you—how little everything else mattered when you weren’t by my side—you were gone, and the only thing I cared about was getting you back. I was planning to beat you back to the city so I could pick you up at the airport, maybe take you back to my place, and?—”
