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There was a pause in which I knew my firefighter was wrestling with the decision, putting me first when what he needed was someone to bring him soup or medicine. He needed to let someone take care of him for a change.
I heaved a breath and sent another text.
Being sick wouldn’t feel as terrible as being in the same town and not seeing you.
Another pause and then,Centennial Hotel. Room 333
My pulse ratcheted up again.Be there soon <3
After a pit stop at a supermarket for lozenges, gourmet soup, bottled water, and flowers, I arrived at the Centennial. On the third floor of the elegant hotel, I shuffled the bouquet under my arm and knocked on door 333.
I huffed a breath, amazed at how crazy-nervous I felt. Now that Asher was here, every minute of our two-month separation smacked me in the face. I’d dressed in a pretty violet shift dress and brushed my hair out so that it fell in soft waves over my shoulders. I wanted to be beautiful for him.
The door opened and Asher’s expression—tired but somehow more handsome than I remembered—completely came undone. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, taking me in.
“Hi,” I said.
Hi,he mouthed and motioned me in. He seemed unable to take his eyes off me, and I couldn’t stop staring at my firefighter, either. It was almost hard to believe he was here after living for so long in my fevered imagination.
I stepped inside the room—a suite, with a couch in front of a TV and a small kitchenette. I set the items down on the counter. When my arms were free, I moved to him, pressed myself against him. “Asher…”
He brushed the hair from my face, eyes roaming. His brow furrowed with an intense expression I’d never seen him wear, as if he were just as troubled by the pull between us, the heat and longing. Theneed…
I moved to kiss him, but he turned his head. “Don’t want to get—”
“You don’t want to get me sick,” I said. “I know. But I don’t care.”
“Icare.”
He pulled me to him and instead of kissing me, he held me close, one hand in my hair, the other wrapped around my waist. My eyes fell shut and I melted against him, reveling in the feel of his strong body pressed to me and the scent of him. It was a little bit scary how good it felt to simply be held by him, with no expectation of something more.
Because he missed me too.
Tears sprang to my eyes, but I blinked them away and pulled back. “I’d imagined our reunion would be more of you tearing off my clothes and having your way with me for all hours, but playing Florence Nightingale works too.” I took his hand and led him back to the couch.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down heavily. His voice was scratchy and rough, and clearly, it hurt to speak. “Wanted to take you out, do something special for you…”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, moving to the kitchenette and busying myself with the soup. “And don’t say things like that, you’ll make a girl cry.”
I brought him the container of soup—chicken noodle—and a spoon and sat beside him. He took it gratefully, eyes still on me. Feeling was mutual: I couldn’t pry my eyes from him if I tried. Somehow, he made flannel pants and a V-neck undershirt look impossibly erotic.
“You look tired.” I smoothed the hair above his ear. “Too much work.”
“You too,” he croaked.
“Probably,” I said. “My ad got made in record time because it was the antidote to thinking about you.”
He nodded, and the intensity in his brown eyes said more than he was able. He spooned a few bites of soup then set it on the coffee table.
“You want something for the pain?”
He shook his head, and I could see he needed rest. I pulled him to me and put his head in my lap, grazing my fingers lightly through his hair.
“Feels good,” he whispered, moments away from sleep. My fatigue from the last few weeks crashed over me. Before either of us could pass out, I gently pushed him against the couch lengthwise. He stretched out and I stretched out along with him.
“This okay?” I asked, my head pillowed on his chest.
His arms around me tightened. “Perfect.”
