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“Huh?”
“I need your address.”
She mumbles the address, and I plug it into my phone.
“Can you stand?” I stroke her arm lightly.
“Why?”
“We’re going to take you home.”
My chest tightens as I help her up. Her face is a mask of anguish, and I’m certain she keeps her eyelids almost closed to keep tears from spilling out.
“Lean on me,” I encourage, wrapping my arm around her waist and lifting her from the floor.
“I can walk,” she insists, even as she rests almost all her weight on me.
“I’ve got you.” Somehow my lips find their way to the top of her head. She lets out a moan and presses her body into mine. I force myself to ignore thinking about how good she feels like this as we make our way out of her office.
Even as she willingly lets me escort her toward the elevator, she continues to insist that she’ll be fine soon. On the way down, she apologizes a total of three times for missing the meeting, all while she rattles off stats and figures that were mentioned in her report.
“I’m not a slacker,” she says at the same time we make it to the awaiting car.
“I know,” I tell her because she doesn’t need to tell me that. Yet, I won’t argue with her. Not while she’s in such pain.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she blurts out a few seconds before she falls to her knees behind the car and spills out the entire contents of her stomach.
I immediately hold back strands of her hair that fall into her face. I order the driver to retrieve some towels and hand wipes from the car. My free hand moves up and down Riley’s spine soothingly.
“I-I’m so sorry,” she says, embarrassed.
“Don’t.” I wipe her face with the towel and hand her the hand wipes right before putting her in the backseat of the car. I put her seatbelt around her and give the driver the address before going around and sliding in next to Riley.
As we exit the underground garage, I roll up the divider to minimize the amount of sunlight that streams through the windows.
During the twenty-minute drive, I remind the driver to slow the fuck down. Every minor bump we hit causes Riley to hiss in pain.
Her pain causes a ripping feeling in my chest.
“Here.”
I help Riley up to her condo once we arrive at her place. I root around in her purse for her key, and as soon as I open her door, the scent of vanilla fills my nose. It’s her, all her.
Riley doesn’t fight me as I help her remove her shoes by the door and then lead her down the hall to where I presume her bedroom is. While still latched onto my side, she pauses at the first door on the left and heads in. I help her onto the king size bed and then cover her with the blanket.
“Blinds,” she murmurs.
I glance around and realize she’s asking me to close the blinds. The bedroom is at a perfect angle for the midday sun to enter the room. Which, today, is not a good thing.
I press the lever next to the floor-to-ceiling window, and the blackout curtains shroud the room in darkness.
Pausing for a beat, I note the absolute silence. Riley’s bedroom is … interesting. Among what must be thirty or so pillows, there is a cornucopia of colors. Above the bed are three separate paintings. One is of a sunset, the other of a woman and a young girl, and the other is a scene of ladybugs. The paintings are filled with bright colors that match her bedding and pillows.
There are four different plants on either of her nightstands that sit in painted, colorful clay pots. There’s a framed picture on one of the nightstands. I lift it to read the words “Look on the bright side” on the small postcard.
I only take a moment to take in her room before I focus back on Riley. She’s so still except for the small up and down movements of her body, indicating her breathing. I don’t want to disturb her. But I need to be near her.
I move to the side of the bed and feel her forehead again. I realize a migraine doesn’t come with a temperature but it’s the only excuse I have to touch her. Her face flinches slightly but then she relaxes again.
