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He chuckled, coming to sit next to me. The bed dipped under his weight.
“I’m guessing you’re still feeling pretty rough, huh?”
I shoved the covers down so that my mouth was visible and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I’m fine, really. This happens to me all the time. I get super stressed and as soon as the stress is gone,bam, I get a cold. I’ll be fine after a little sleep.” I tried to sit up, but the room spun, so I put my head back down, trying to play off my failed attempt as if I was just trying to get comfortable.
“Uh-huh. Do you usually shiver this much when you’re tired?”
“I’m shivering?” The room was a little on the chilly side, but I figured I had just set the AC to high at some point. “Are you sure?”
Holden grinned, hand reaching toward my head. I closed my eyes, hoping the pillows would swallow me up before his hand made contact with my forehead.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” His hand was so gentle and cool as he pressed it lightly across my forehead. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. At least I would die happy. “Sutton, you are burning up. Have you taken anything for your fever?”
“I don’t have a fever,” I grumbled unhappily, disappointed when he took his hand away. “I’m just tired. Is it me, or are the walls moving?”
Holden sighed and stood up. My arm shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. I would forever blame the fever that I did not have for the question I asked next, and the desperate quality of it: “Where are you going? Are you leaving?”
“No,” he said, and bent down to brush away the sweaty hair that was clumped around my face. “I’m going to get you some medicine and water. I’ll be right back.”
I nodded, relieved. “Okay, thank you. I’ll wait here.”
I was asleep so fast that I didn’t hear his reply. Something cool and damp woke me. I was about to curse the universe for continuing to wake me up for no good reason when I remembered Holden was here with me. I cracked open my eyes to find him sitting next to me, hand holding a damp cloth to my forehead, watching me with concerned eyes.
“Hi,” I said, my raw throat doing a great impression of sandpaper on a chalkboard.
“Hi.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Do you think you can sit up and take some Tylenol?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” He lifted the cloth while I tried to shove up to a sitting position using my elbows. The motion sent my stomach hurtling toward my mouth. “I’m going to throw up real quick first, though, if that’s okay?”
I barely got the question out, rolling over to grab the small trash can I’d moved next to the bed at some point. The thought flashed through my mind:The only thing worse than puking is puking in front of Holden St. James while he rubs your back and holds your hand. I felt the coolness of the damp cloth on the back of my neck, and I was so embarrassed and miserable I couldn’t stop the tears from streaking down my cheeks.I bet Greer never barfed a day in her life.Where that thought had come from, I couldn’t even begin to guess. I blamed the fever.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I chanted, keeping my eyes closed and my arms wrapped around the trash can.
“Baby, you don’t have to apologize.” Holden’s voice was so gentle that more tears rushed from my eyes. He shushed me, his hand rubbing a soothing path up and down my back.
Slowly — so, so slowly — I lifted my head from the cradle of my arms. “I think I’m done,” I announced when the movement didn’t make me retch.
Holden handed me a cup of water from my nightstand. I swished it around, then spat it into the trash can. Taking a few exploratory sips, I savored the coldness of the water on my dry, raw throat.
“What are you doing?” I asked, watching Holden as he reached over me to take the trash can.
“I’m going to clean this out real quick. I’ll be right back.” He announced it so casually, as if he cleaned out vomit-filled buckets on the regular, and why did that make me like him even more? The blush exploded across my entire body. This day just kept getting better and better.
“Noooo,” I moaned, trying to grab it from his hands. “Please don’t, I’ll clean it out as soon as the floor stops moving.”
“Sutton, it’s just vomit. I’ll live.” He easily maneuvered the trash can out of my reach. “Just relax and try not to puke again until I get back.”
Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that one day Holden St. James would be cleaning up my vomit. What a time to be alive.
“Sure no puke, no problem.” I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of the fact that I was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of my most comfortable underwear — otherwise known as granny panties.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Holden demanded, turning around to scowl at me.
“I need to feed the squeak squad.” I sat on the bed for a second, trying to find the strength to stand, but it had disappeared about thirty minutes ago, along with my will to live.
“Squeak squad?” Holden repeated, shaking his head. He pointed to the bed with his free hand. “You’re not going anywhere. Lay back down. I already fed them.”
