Page 38 of One Midnight Kiss

Fox kept watching me, making sure I was eating.

“Stop,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Quit staring at me.”

“Was I staring?” he asked.

“You’re still doing it,” I said, frustration in my voice.

He shrugged, looking almost vulnerable, which was a look I’d never seen on him before. “I care about you, Natalia. I want you to feel better.”

I stared at him, searching his face for any hint of sarcasm or a joke, but there was none. He was being honest. My pulse quickened. Jokes, I could handle, but I had no idea how to respond to sincerity.

“I don’t know why,” he quickly added. “But I do.”

A normal, rational person would probably hear that and get weirded out, but I wasn’t normal. Or rational. I liked that he was honest and said he didn’t know why he liked me. That was when it hit me that I actually liked him too. But I’m not about to tell him that.

I couldn’t muster the energy to verbally spar with him. My belly was full. I could breathe through my nose, and I was exhausted. I put my carton on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch, letting the warmth of the curry and the comfort of his presence wash over me. My eyes felt heavy, and before I knew it, I was drifting off, the sound of the football game fading into the background.

I woke up to darkness. It took me a few panicked seconds to figure out where I was. I reached out and found the familiar feel of my sheets. I was in my bed, the sheets damp with sweat. My fever had finally broken.

I pushed myself up, blinking in the dim light, trying to remember how I got here. I didn’t recall coming to bed on my own. The last thing I remembered was falling asleep on the couch.

The thought that Fox had carried me here made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t quite name. It felt foreign but kind of good as well. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and took a second to get my bearings.

I climbed out of bed, padding quietly into the living room. I expected to find it empty, maybe with a note left on the counter. Instead, I spotted Fox. He was stretched out on the couch, fast asleep. The TV was on, some late-night talk show host on the screen.

I looked down at him. He looked younger like this, the harsh lines of his face softened in sleep. He had covered himself with the throw blanket I kept on the couch for decoration. His head was propped up on one of my decorative pillows. Something in my chest clenched, an ache I hadn’t felt in years, as if something broken inside me had started to knit back together.

How was that possible?

I stepped closer, being careful not to make a sound. The moment was too peaceful to shatter by waking him. I draped another blanket over him, tucking it in around his shoulders. He didn’t stir, just murmured something under his breath and settled deeper into the cushions.

I stood there for a long moment, watching him. This man who I thought I knew, who was turning out to be so much more complicated than I could have ever imagined. He made me feel things I wasn’t sure I was ready to feel.

But I didn’t despise him. Not anymore.

And that was the scariest part of all.