Page 57
The bile rose fast—she fell to her knees again.
Between lying on the cold, hard floor and retching her guts out into the toilet bowl, Addison lost track of time. Finally, when she thought she had nothing left to expel, she rose to her unsteady feet.
Her sweat-slicked hands trembled as she fumbled for the toothpaste and toothbrush. She managed a shaky second round of brushing. Rinsing the minty foam, she reached for the mouthwash—
Everything went black.
“Yarrow?” Oliver’s voice. Even in dreams, he haunted her. “You okay?” His hand settled, heavy and familiar, on her shoulder. “Addison?”
How badly she wanted to shrug him off, but she had no strength left to even do that. “Don’t. Don’t. Hurts.”
“What hurts?”
The concern in his voice was endearing. And here she thought he hated her.
She licked her dry lips. “Everything hurts.”
“What hurts where, honey? Why are you on the floor?”
The floor? She didn’t recall being on the floor. Only endless bouts of pain and heaving.
“My skin hurts. My stomach. Everything.”
He laid his cool palm against her sticky, hot forehead. “You’re burning up.”
She was burning up. So hot, she wanted to peel her skin off. “Dizzy. Headache.”
“Can I lift you? Put you to bed?”
He was doing so before she responded. When he resettled her on her cold covers, he dropped a kiss to her cheek. “Stay here.”
Where would she go? Silly man.
Attempting to find a comfortable patch of bed, she flipped to her stomach and tucked a pillow under her sizzling cheek.
The pounding in her head made it impossible to keep her eyes open, but sleep eluded her. She hadn’t been sick in years. Having the flu now of all times was very inconvenient.
Netta needed her, and she was failing her.
The throbbing in her head morphed into a ceaseless drilling.
Did Oliver have pain pills in this house? Advil? Tylenol? A couple of those white tablets that fizzed? She’d take anything at this point.
As though he’d read her mind, he returned with a glass of cold water and two pain pills. She didn’t care what pills they were. She downed them first. The room-temperature water freeze-burned her throat, but she drank it anyway.
“Slow. Easy. Not too much or you’ll make yourself sick.”
Who was he to tell her what to do? “Thirsty.”
“You can have some more in a bit.”
“No. More now.”
His cold, dry lips skimmed her temple. “You’re ornery when you’re sick.”
“I’m not ornery. I’m dying.” She cracked open her burning eyes. “Oliver, I have to find my brother.”
His weight settled more heavily on the bed. “Get a little better first. Let me try to see what else I can find out—”
