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I can see the night sky through the cut-out windows of the parking garage. “Are the stars out?” I murmur in his ear. The stars were so lovely when I was at his new house. Was that really only last night? Or two nights ago, since I still can’t figure out what time it actually is and if it’s today or tomorrow yet.
I think of his house. His secret house. I remind myself not to say anything to anyone about it. What if I ruin the surprise in my weakened state? The fear of that has me squeezing my eyes shut as we enter the resort again.
“You got the thermometer?” Sebastian asks someone, not slowing his pace.
I open one eye to see we’re in the lobby at the front desk. This is so embarrassing. I feel like my dress is riding up, like my backside is on display like the donuts at the eatery across the way. I squirm again for him to let me down. He only tightens his grip.
“Can you bring it up, please?” He asks that disembodied voice in the distance. “I don’t want to put her down. And I don’t want to take her temperature here.”
Once we’re in the elevator, I press on his chest. “I got this. I can’t have you carry me anymore!” And then I apologize for yelling at him. Goodness. The man has been nothing but kind to me and I yell?
Except, he used to not be kind. And then suddenly he was. He’s the kindest man I think I’ve ever known. Inexplicably, tears threaten to form again. Do I have the flu, or some sort of sentimental disease where every thought that occurs to me has me falling for Sebastian?
I don’t know exactly how, but suddenly, we’re on the fifth floor.
“Magic,” I say as I reach my hand up to tap his nose. My aim is off because I poke him in the eye.
“Okay, okay,” Sebastian says, and this time he sounds a little less patient. “No touchy, okay?”
He stops walking, and I hear him pressing buttons on a door keypad. But we’re not in the office. I think we’re in his suite . . . his home. I open my eyes wide and try to take in my surroundings, like Dorothy upon entering Oz. It’s gorgeous in here, what I can see of it in the dim lighting. Dark gray walls, large paintings in monochromatic black and white, burnt gold light fixtures high above my head.
“Thanks,” he says. “You can put it on the counter.” It takes me a moment to understand he’s talking to whoever brought up the thermometer.
“Thank you,” I offer to whoever was nice enough to do that. Although, if the thermometer shows a really high number, I have a feeling Sebastian really will take me to the hospital and I won’t be thanking him or her then.
I hear the front doors close as Sebastian carries me down a hallway. How is he still carrying me? He’s not even breathing very heavily. I feel the force of him kicking a nearly closed door open. The reality thatI’m inSebastian Tate’s bedroomjolts through me like I’ve been plunged into a camping cooler full of ice.
“Do you need . . . anything . . . before I take you to bed?” He clears his throat and I snicker. “I mean . . . before I help you get in the bed because you’re too sick to do it on your own? I have to take your temperature. If it’s high, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Bathroom,” I manage. He takes several steps to the door and then, before he lets me down, asks. “Can you do it or do you need help?”
I give a muffled scream and cover my ears with my hands. “I got it,” I insist.
When I’m out of the bathroom—all ivory marble and black hand towels and gold fixtures—he wraps an arm around my waist and helps me over to the bed.Hisbed.
He helps take my shoes off, yanks the covers down, and pulls up on my side so I can climb in. I lay my head on his pillow and breathe in the scent: woodsy. Musky. Citrusy.
Sebastiany.
A delectable heaven I want to bathe in.
Pointing to me, he sighs. “So, your clothes and everything . . .?”
What is he asking, exactly? “I’m fine.” Another thought rocks me. “Besides, I’m not going to let you see my Spice Girls undies.”
His chuckle doesn’t sound normal, but I’m too tired to figure it out. Maybe he’s nervous? Or annoyed?
I squeeze my eyes closed.
“Okay, I’m going to take your temperature now. Hold still.”
Cool plastic slides across my forehead and I hear a beep.
“I said, hold still,” He clicks his tongue and tries again. He swears under his breath. I had no idea Sebastian Tate had such a potty mouth! He takes my temperature yet again. “Yep. It’s one hundred two point two.”
I snicker. “That’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” And once again, his voice is growly. “Google says anything above one oh three warrants a visit to the emergency room.”
