Page 143 of Falling Back to You

Khia’s dark curls popped up from the sofa, her cheeks unnaturally rosy. “Hi,” she said lethargically.

Oh boy. I crossed the room and touched her forehead. She’s burning up. “Are you feeling sick?”

Khia nodded and curled into a ball. “I puked. Daddy held my hair up.” She sniffled. “And my tummy hurts.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I brushed a curl from her flushed face and headed for the stairs. Where was Cal? He was usually on time. Wait . . . It was daylight savings this morning. The man was as analog as they came. And if he was up all night with Khia, that explained a few things.

I gripped the hand rail and limped up the stairs, my joints protesting the movement. You should have taken your ginger shot this morning. But I’d been distracted by thoughts of last night.

Cal’s door was open, and I hesitated in the doorway. He was fast asleep, arm over his eyes, with a very content Mrs. Pickles cuddled up like a loaf on his bare chest.

One look and my heart was a puddle on the floor. He was too dang adorable. But he was also very late. Taking a mental snapshot, I called his name softly.

Cal bolted upright, sending his cuddle partner flying.

Wow, that was unexpected. You’d think I’d barked at him like a drill sergeant.

He rubbed his eyes. “Elle?” His rough, sleepy voice skittered over my skin.

Focus here. “Hey. You overslept, and Khia’s sick.”

“What time is it?”

I held up my phone. “8:07.”

He groaned. “I’m so sorry. I think it was after three before I crashed. How is she?”

“She’s running a fever. Did you give her any medicine?”

“Yeah.” Cal scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was two thirty.”

Almost six hours. She was due for another dose. “Any other symptoms besides fever and vomiting?”

Cal shook his head.

“Okay, I’ll take care of her if you wanna take care of”—I waved my hand over his general direction—“that.” I darted away before he could answer but not fast enough to avoid his chuckle.

First Thing in the Morning Cal was far too appealing.

Downstairs, I found Khia peering under the couch. “I can’t find Mrs. Pickles!” she cried, eyes wide.

“She was sleeping with your daddy.”

Khia giggled. “Daddy said he doesn’t like cats, but Mrs. Pickles looooooves him. He said animals know when you don’t like them, and they love you extra hard. Except for Jerry. No one likes Jerry. He scratched me.” She slid up her sleeve and showed me a faded scratch.

Jerry hated everyone for breathing.

I took her temperature—a whopping 102.3—and then she went to the bathroom. I’d run a bath for her once she finished and I got some medicine into her.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Cal emerged in a flurry of motion.

And look, I was only human. But I could not handle this man sleep-rumpled and barefoot with creases from his pillow on his cheek. He’d hastily thrown on jeans and a T-shirt. It should be illegal to look that good first thing in the morning.

His gaze locked on mine. “How is she?”

I poured the liquid medicine into a cup. “She’ll be okay. Kids usually bounce back pretty quick.”

“Thanks.” His low voice washed over me as he hugged me from behind, breath teasing the hair on my neck.