He blinked at her with hazy blue eyes as he lay flat on the bed, strands of his brown hair flopping over his forehead in boyish disarray. But the bare chest above his white sheet, the expanse of lean muscles dusted by more dark hair, was anything but childish.
As when she’d first seen him in that suit at Milano, her lungs just gave up and devoted themselves entirely to worshipping his handsomeness. Which was inconvenient, because she could use some air in a world turned suddenly hypoxic.
“How are you feeling?” she wheezed out.
He jerked at the words, and then stiffened everywhere with a bit-off groan.
“Oh, shit.” She rushed to his side. “What can I get you? More ibuprofen? Your muscle relaxants? Water? Or should I take you to the hospital?”
“No hospital.” The words sounded like sandpaper. “Pillow under my knees. Please. Sorry.”
A frantic glance revealed a pillow that had fallen beside the bed. She plucked it from the floor and slid her hand beneath the region of the sheet that seemed most likely to contain his knees.
If she was wrong, this was shortly going to become an extremely awkward moment.
There. The bend of his knee, the flesh there warm and velvety under a few crisp hairs. As gently as possible, she eased the pillow beneath that crook as he breathed harshly. Then the job was done, and he relaxed into the mattress while she attempted to gain control of her heartbeat.
“Thank you.” His breathing slowed. “Don’t worry. I’m wearing gym shorts. Didn’t want to flash Bea accidentally.”
She wasn’t disappointed at the presence of those shorts. Definitely not.
With careful fingertips, she smoothed the hair from his brow. “Do you feel better now? With the pillow there?”
His eyelids lowered. “Yeah.”
“What can I get you? Do you need a drink?” Two pill bottles rested on his nightstand, beside an empty glass. “More pain medicine?”
With seeming effort, he opened his eyes again and glanced at his bedside alarm clock. “Took ibuprofen and muscle relaxants about half an hour ago. Maybe more water?” He shifted, then winced. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have to take care of me. Should take care of myself.”
“You’re fine.” Glass in hand, she strode to the kitchen and searched the cabinets until she found a fresh cup. Cool water dispensed from the refrigerator door, so she filled the cup there and deposited the old glass in his sink. Within moments, she’d returned to his room. “Here you go.”
When he tried to lift his head, she slid more pillows beneath it to support him.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Again.”
He didn’t seem entirely steady, so she held the cup with him as he drank, their fingers tangling over the slick glass.
Once he’d drained the liquid, she eyed his position. “Do you want me to get rid of the pillows under your head?”
“Leave them.” He attempted a small smile. “Easier to talk that way.”
Another comma of hair had escaped onto his brow, so she nudged it back into place. “You don’t need to talk, Martin. Go back to sleep, and hopefully you’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“Why…” He swallowed. “Why are you here?”
That question could be answered so many ways. But if he wanted her gone, none of the more embarrassing responses mattered.
“Keisha said you were in bad shape and might be out for the rest of the week, so I wanted to check on you. Maybe help, if you needed it.” She took a half-step back from the bed. “I’m sorry. I know this is an intrusion. I can g—”
“No.” He reached out an arm, then clenched his eyes shut and let it fall. “No, Rose. Not a complaint. Definitely not a complaint. A question.”
If she didn’t need to leave, and he no longer required immediate assistance, she wanted to rest her feet for a moment. Before they fell off of their own accord.
She looked around his small room, dominated entirely by the large bed. “Could I sit down somewhere? Is there a chair I could bring in here?”
“Sit.” His hand rose an inch and patted the mattress once. “King. Plenty of room.”
That seemed like a terrible idea. “I’ll jostle you.”
