“Are you okay?”
Clutching the towel around me, I push him aside, go over to the toilet, and vomit into it. Fuck. I stay put as it rises again, and at the same time I feel him pulling back my hair and his cool hand on the back of my neck.
“All right, baby,” he says.
I vomit again, embarrassed, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He tears off a few sheets of paper and hands it to me. I take it, wait until I’m sure I’m done, then straighten, wiping my mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified.
“Is it your head?” He cups my face and looks into my eyes. “You poor thing.”
My face flushes at the lie, and my eyes sting.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He pulls me into his arms. “You should have said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I was trying to ignore it…” I shiver.
“Come on,” he says firmly, “let’s get dry and warm you up again.”
We finish drying ourselves and make our way out into the bedroom. He makes me get in and tucks the duvet around me.“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says as he tugs on a pair of track pants.
He leaves the door open, and I see him occasionally as he moves around the kitchen. I snuggle down beneath the covers, feeling spoiled. The last time anyone did this for me, I was about fourteen. I had the flu, and my mother was fussing around me.
I check my messages while I wait, and I’m surprised to see one from Gramps.How’s the trip going?he asks.Making any inroads?
Frowning, I wince at the thought of him discovering what’s happened between me and Caesar. The fact that he’d probably approve if he thought it meant I was softening the Ashfords up makes me feel uncomfortable. But I don’t have to tell him anything about that.
I could just ignore the message, but that might look odd, too, so instead I send a short text saying it’s going well and send it, hoping that will satisfy him for a while, and put my phone down as Caesar comes back into the bedroom carrying a mug of tea, a plate of toast with butter, two Panadol, and a bottle of water.
“Here,” he says firmly, handing me the Panadol.
I’ve been trying not to take medication apart from folic acid, but I know that Panadol or paracetamol is safe to take while you’re pregnant, and I do have a bit of a headache, so I take them with a few mouthfuls of water. He fetches his own tea and toast, then slides under the duvet beside me.
We lean back on the pillows, turn a little toward one another, and crunch our toast while we sip our drinks. He’s made me fruit tea, which is also thoughtful and touching.
“Want me to close the curtains?” he asks, because the sunshine that’s slanting across the bed is dazzling.
I shake my head, though. “I’m okay. Feeling a little better.”
“Good.” He chews his toast, studying me thoughtfully.
Has it occurred to him that I tend to feel sick in the morning? He doesn’t look suspicious, though. I suppose the migraine excuse is plausible enough, for the moment anyway, especially if he’s used to his mother having them.
I lower my eyes, playing with the paper tab at the end of the tea bag. I hate lying to him.
He lifts a hand and tucks it under my chin, then lifts it so I’m looking into his eyes. I wait for him to say, What’s bothering you? Or to query what I’m hiding.
He doesn’t, though. Instead, he leans forward and kisses me. I sigh and let him, enjoying his warm, firm lips and just being close to him.
When he eventually lifts his head, he kisses my nose and moves back. “You looked sad,” he says. “Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not.” But I am, and he can obviously sense it.
“All right,” he says, picking up another piece of toast. “Top five movies. And go.”
That makes me smile. He’s trying to cheer me up.
“Okay. Number five…Gravitywith Sandra Bullock.”
