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So, I did. I closed my eyes, turning my face so my nose nuzzled against his strong neck, and I rested. My heart slowed. My breathing evened out. A few minutes later, he shifted me again so he could hold me with one hand, and I felt him reach over and write something on the paper. He ran the thermometer across my forehead and made a disapproving sound but didn’t force me off of him. Then he settled his arms around me again, and he rested his cheek on my head.
I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that as I dipped and crested from sleep to dreamy content, but a really selfish part of me didn’t want it to end.
The realistic part knew it had to.
Eventually, I fell into a shallow nap. I knew he had shifted me onto the bed, but I stayed weighted in a dreamy state. After a while, he coaxed me awake and got me to the bathroom where a bath had been drawn in the dark stone garden tub. Everything had been made with knotty pine, rustic, dark stonework, and gleaming silver fixtures. Lachlan had folded a fluffy, white towel beside the tub, and he handed me a stack of clothes.
“I’m trying to guess your size, but I think my pajamas will stay up if you cinch them in.” They were made of buttery soft, red plaid, and the matching top buttoned down the front.
I wasn’t tiny. I couldn’t be sure of my size anymore because I mostly wore leggings, but after having Calla, I had definitely gone up some pant sizes. It was my ass more than anything. I tried to assess the difference between Lachlan’s well-built, but muscle-honed hips and mine. If the pants were too small, I woulddieof embarrassment.
Or I would just walk out naked.
Toss up.
He left me alone to bathe, and I melted into the warm water with relish. His shampoo had that minimalistic, high-end look to it, and it smelled like money.
I could feel my body doing its thing, forcing me to fall into a restive state and battle the infection in my throat and ears. But I really was starting to feel a lot better than I had in the morning. My head ached and my throat burned, but I could swallow water, at least.
And Lachlan had been firm about that one. He had given me a black tumbler filled with ice and water that had a thick, plastic straw through the lid. After taking more acetaminophen, I drank the whole thing slowly. And then, when I had to pee so badly I couldn’t stand it anymore, I drained the bath and toweled off.
The pajamas fit pretty well, and I had to cinch them up a little, but they would stay up, at least. I looked askance at my dirty underwear and decided commando was the way to go. The pants were stupid long, and the button-down shirt hung around me like a Halloween robe, but I buttoned it up as far as it would go, which still left a deep “V” over my sternum. Hot.
With my hair clean and cascading around my shoulders in damp waves, and my spirits restored, I walked quietly out of the bathroom with the tumbler clutched between my hands. I left my dirty clothes folded neatly in the corner between the tub and shower, and hoped he’d ignore them so I could take them home and wash them later.
Lachlan lounged on his bed, scrolling through his phone and wearing a pair of thick-rimmed, black glasses that looked like they cost more than my kidney would fetch on the black market. He wore a heather gray Henley that stretched across his chest in an obscenely delicious ripple, and he’d changed his joggers out for a white pair. He looked over as I passed the window wall. Then he lifted himself on an elbow, his eyes glued to me. I could have sworn he looked… gobsmacked.
I guess the difference between bedraggled urchin and freshly washed matron are striking enough to make an impact.
The oatmeal mess was gone, and even the blood had disappeared. The room smelled like bleach and some kind of light fragrance that mingled with the chemicals. I glanced out the windows and stopped short. Lachlan had floodlights that cast a bright glow on the forest below. Fat snowflakes drifted down like God had thrown wintry confetti over my sleepover.
Only, I was pretty sure I didn’t want God to know what I did at my sleepover.
I joined Lachlan on the bed, setting my tumbler down on the nightstand and crawling under the blankets to sit cross-legged next to him.
He sat up, one leg stretched over the side of the bed and the other bent in front of him.
I poked the middle of his glasses. “Cute.”
Lachlan gave me a sheepish side grin. “I’m old. I know.”
“Thirty-four isn’t old.”
“Old enough to know when someone’s in trouble,” he said, his tone sobering. “Tell me what’s going on with you. I want to help.”
I made a “yuck” face. “How about we talk about you? I don’t know anything about you. Except that you probably never eat s’mores for dinner.”
“That’s… you don’t actually eat—” he stared. Then he saw my mischievous grin and rolled his eyes. “We can trade questions,” he said with a little eye squint.
“Fine. I’m going first. Why do you live in the buttcrack of Idaho?”
He laughed and pushed his glasses further up his nose with the back of his hand. “Coming out of the gate swinging. I grew up here.”
“Yikes,” I grimaced dramatically.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, my turn. What’s up with your ex?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said, and my eyes strayed to my phone, which I had decided would be better to ignore.
