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He flushes the toilet again. “Can you get me some water?” he asks in a weak voice. I move towards the glass by the sink. “There’s a bottle in the mini-fridge.”
Mini-fridge. Of course.
By the time I’m back with a bottle of cold water for both of us, Mase is sitting on the closed toilet. “Little sips,” I instruct as I hand one to him.
“I really need to brush my teeth,” he says ruefully.
“That’s my line.” But he shows me where his toothbrush is, and he actually has a spare. I help him to his feet and we brush our teeth together, taking turns to spit out the froth.
“Want to try lying down?” I ask after he’s drunk nearly the entire bottle of water without bringing it back up.
“You’ll stay with me?”
I stay. I help him to the bed and put a garbage pail by his side of the bed. I get him undressed, trying not to linger too long over the etched muscles in his abs, his rock-hard thighs.
My husband has a very nice body.
He also falls asleep before I’m tucked in beside him.
My husband.
Mase
Iwakewithastart, the warm body curled next to me an unusual sensation. The pounding headache is another new one. At least the nausea is gone; throwing up took care of that.
As a rule, I don’t let women sleep over. I prefer to go to them, to invade their personal space for the brief—or not so brief—time together.
It’s different with Fiona. There was no mention of where we would spend our wedding night together; she followed me out of the elevator, trusting that I knew what I was doing.
I don’t. Not at all.
Because if I knew what I was doing, I might not have done the deed in the first place.
What was I thinking?
I stare at the ceiling. Sunlight floods the room since neither one of us thought to pull the curtains. I don’t even know what time it is since my phone is somewhere between the bed and the bathroom and I don’t want to move in case I wake Fiona.
I have no idea how to do this.
Fiona sighs in her sleep. Her tangle of strawberry curls is pulled into a knot at the top of her head, spewing out every which way on the pillow. Her fake lashes look dark against her cheek, and her lips part slightly, making a whistling noise when she exhales.
Seeing her like this is like a punch in the gut. She’s absolutely adorable.
Is that what I was thinking? Fiona’s cute and we had fun; it’s like the Bruno Mars song—we were looking for something dumb to do.
We should have called it a night and gone to bed. I could have pulled her into my bed without marrying her.
But, no. I had to go all in.
With a soft murmur, Fiona rolls onto her back, her hand brushing against my chest. My smile widens as I watch her for a moment, obviously awake because her breathing has changed, but she keeps her eyes closed like she’s afraid to open them.
Finally, her eyes crack open, and she stares at the ceiling before she glances sideways at me.
“Hello.” I smirk.
“You’re here,” she whispers. “I thought maybe I dreamed you.”
“Maybe a nightmare?”
