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“A little past eight.”
Olivia squawked in dismay. “I’m late!” By the time she showered, got dressed, and hoofed it to the office, it’d be well into the workday.
She grabbed Sammy’s hand. “Phone. Call,” she wheezed.
He knew what she was asking before she spelled it out. “No,” he said. “You’re sick. You can’t even stand, much less go to work.”
“Can too.” Olivia pushed herself off the ground. Two seconds later, her ass hit the cool white tile again—and stayed there. “Cannot,” she amended.
“Anyway, I already called your office and told them you couldn’t come in because you have a stomach virus.”
What? When?Olivia hadn’t heard him on the phone. Then again, she’d been too busy acquainting herself with the toilet to pay attention to much else.
The adrenaline from missing work dissipated and left her more drained than before. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this sick. She hadn’t even caught a common cold in three or four years—her immune system was titanium.
Sammy left and returned a minute later with a little plastic stool that he plunked in the shower stall. Olivia didn’t protest when he hauled her into the shower, sat her down on the stool, and helped rinse out her hair. She knew how to pick her battles.
Sammy worked briskly, shampooing and conditioning the sticky strands until they were nice and clean again. She closed her eyes and savored the sensation of his strong, sure hands massaging her scalp. The jackhammers in her head eased, lulled by the massage, the soothing sound of the water, and the comforting male presence beside her.
After he finished, he dried her hair and carried her into her bedroom, bridal-style. Somehow, he’d avoided spraying water on her torso in the shower, so Olivia didn’t need to change before he tucked her back into bed.
Her stomach growled its displeasure at the new horizontal position. “Sam—”
A trash can appeared before she finished saying his name. She leaned over and dry heaved while he held her hair again and rubbed soothing circles on her back, but nothing came out.
After a while, she flopped onto her back and waved the proverbial white flag. “I’m sick.”
“I know.” Sammy smoothed a gentle hand over her hair.
The next few hours—days? weeks?—passed in a blur. Olivia was out of it half the time, caught up in feverish hallucinations or fitful dreams. It must’ve been days, because if it were weeks, she’d be in a hospital. Every time she woke up, Sammy was there, feeding her ice chips to help with the dehydration. He seemed to know what she needed, when she needed it without her saying anything, including when she needed to use the restroom or throw up again.
Yeah, the symptoms from whatever she had were not pleasant. Things came out on both ends.
It would’ve been deeply humiliating, except Olivia was too miserable to feel embarrassed. She was only grateful that she wasn’t living alone, dealing with this nightmare by herself.
Perhaps her apartment flood had been a blessing in disguise.
During her bed-ridden stint, Olivia started talking to Sammy about nothing and everything: her mother. Her sister. Her sister’s douche canoe fiancé, whom she was pretty sure she caught staring down her shirt the last time she’d gone home. Her brilliant five-, ten-, and twenty-year life plans. Why Charmander was the best Pokémon. Why Sammy needed to stop walking around shirtless.
He listened to her ramble and took part in the conversations, even though half were absurd and the other half ended abruptly when Olivia fell asleep or lost her train of thought.
However, he took a special interest in her verbal dissertation on why Sammy’s shirts needed to stay on.
“It’s distracting.” Olivia sucked on an ice chip until it melted and the cool liquid trickled down her throat, soothing her fever. Bless whoever invented ice chips. They deserved a statue in every city and an annual bash with cupcakes shaped like their face. “I can’t think when your six-pack is staring at me.”
“Just my six-pack or any six-pack?”
She pondered the question. She hadn’t thrown up in hours, which was a good sign. Fatigue clawed at her and sweat dampened her brow, but she’d choose that over bodily ejections any day of the week. “Just yours. And Chris Hemsworth.”
“Chris Hemsworth, huh?” Sammy looked thoughtful. “I suppose I could have worse company than Thor.”
“Uh-huh.” Olivia’s lids fluttered, her breath shallow. “‘Specially not fair when you wear those gray sweatpants.”
“What’s wrong with my sweatpants? They’re my favorite pair.”
“I can see your dick through them.”
He choked. “Excuse me?”
