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I groan as the next wave hits me. First thing, there’s always at least two rounds of emptying my guts. But this time, I hear the door open and panic slams into my chest. Oh, fuck, Saul’s coming in, and I can’t stop it as I retch into the toilet. He’s going to be disgusted by my gross yacking and he’s never going to want to fuck me again, and oh, god, I’ve ruined our marriage?—
“It’s okay, baby,” he says, his voice low and soothing as he gathers my hair and pulls it back from my forehead. “You’re okay. Get it out.”
I cough a few times and blink up at him. “I’m sorry, are you holding my fucking hair right now?”
He laughs. I don’t know why he thinks it’s funny. Saul’s in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and even though I’m a gross little pukey mess, he looks absolutely stunning. Cut chest, chiseled abs, body of a man who gives a damn about staying in shape.
“You’re sick. I’m helping.”
I groan as I sit back. He releases my hair, thankfully, because otherwise my face would get buried in his crotch again, and right now blowjobs are not exactly top of mind.
“It’ll be okay. It always passes.”
“How long have you been like this?” He sits down across from me, his back against the vanity. He tries to hide a grimace as he presses a hand to his bruised ribs, but he’s not a good actor. At least not this early in the morning.
“It’s actually better now than it was at the start.” I wipe my mouth and shuffle over to him. “You shouldn’t sit on the floor. You’re still hurt.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” But there’s a little smile on his face. “Although if you’d like to help make me feel better?—”
“You just held my hair while I threw up. Please don’t tell me you’re propositioning me right now.”
“Believe it or not, you’re still fucking beautiful.”
God, that’s so damn lame, and it’s making me swoon a little bit. My heart’s racing and I’m all flushed. Why do I like the way he’s looking at me? And why do I love when he calls me beautiful?
“I should brush my teeth,” I mutter and get to it.
“Tell me if you need something.” He pushes to his feet with a grunt of pain. “Really, I mean it. If the morning sickness is bad, we can go see our doctor. I think there’s stuff you can take for it.”
“Honestly, that’s the worst of it. I might get sick once or twice more today, but every day’s a little better.”
He grunts in reply but doesn’t look convinced. “You’re not in this alone. You can lean on me.”
I wave my toothbrush at him. “Says the guy with the broken ribs.”
“I already told you, I’m fine.”
“And I’m fine too.” My eyebrows raise. “Guess we’re at an impasse.”
He sighs and walks away, shaking his head as I clean out my mouth and get showered.
Fortunately, I was right, and the nausea isn’t bad. Saul’s hovering over me all morning, making sure I eat something, pouring me tea, generally fussing. It’s strange, watching him act like this. I didn’t know he had a nurturing side, but the guy’s practically tripping over himself trying to take care of me. I guess hearing me puke this morning set something off in him, and it makes sense. Normally he’s gone when I have my little first thing bout of toilet karaoke. This is the first time he caught me mid-song.
It’s sweet though. I’ve never had someone react like this to me being sick. Nana raised me and Jason, and she cared about us, but she was never the kind and caring type. When we got sick, it was a couple of Tylenol and off to school, no whining. Stuffy nose? Sore throat? Deal with it. I remember staying home twice: once for a bad fever when I got the flu, and again when I got a stomach bug. Both times Nana locked me in my room and only checked to make sure I wasn’t dead. Jason’s not much better. He was always the baby, and because of his epilepsy, we were always more concerned about him, and I guess he got used to that.
To have someone care about me above anyone else feels strange. But also, good.
Saul leaves for the Rossi mansion and I get ready for my diner shift. It’s a quiet day, nothing special, and Marsha only has to cover for me once early on when I puke up all that food and tea Saul shoved into me. Otherwise, I spend the day waiting tables, collecting tips, and thinking about the way he made me feel, both last night and this morning.
There’s the sex. Obviously, the sex. Really, really good sex. Like the sort of sex I thought might exist but never imagined I’d be having until his dick was in my mouth and suddenly I realized, oh, huh, I get to fuck like it’s the only good thing in the world, that’s nice. The sex is amazing. But it’s also the way he strokes my hair afterward, the way he leans toward me when we’re having a conversation like he doesn’t want to miss a word, the way he pulls back my hair when my face is inches from the toilet bowl spewing pure stomach bile.
Proof that he cares. Which is bizarre since I’ve tried to make it clear that caring is not going to be a part of our relationship. This is strictly business. I get money, my family is taken care of, and he gets?—
A wife and a baby? I guess that’s fair.
Instead, there’s caring.
And I did not sign up for that.
