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“This is a nightmare, isn’t it?” I croaked just as another wave of violent tremors washed over me. “It’s a fever-induced nightmare. It has to be.”
“Fuck, Freckles. Are you sick?” Roan stepped forward, crowding into my space and lifted his palm, pressing it against my forehead.
I weakly batted him away, but the movement threw me off balance, and I had to catch myself on the doorframe. “Don’t call me that,” I grumbled exhaustedly. “And I’m fine. I just need to go back to sleep.”
His brows tilted into a deep V of concern, accentuating the dark bruising under his eyes and the slight swelling of his perfect nose. If I hadn’t been standing on the threshold of death, I might have taken the time to appreciate my handiwork. Too bad I wasn’t much longer for this world.
“Christ, Alma. You can’t even stand up straight. And you’re burning the fuck up. What are you doing out of bed?”
I gave him the most murderous look I could manage, which wasn’t much. “Some asshole wouldn’t stop pounding on my door and ringing the bell. Didn’t give me much choice.”
His features hardened with determination as he placed a large hand on my belly and gently pushed me backward, following me inside. It didn’t take much effort on his part, seeing as I could have been bowled over with a feather just then.
“Come on. We’re getting you to bed.”
“What—I don’t—that’s—” I sputtered in bewilderment as I tripped over my own feet. I would have gone down if Roan hadn’t fisted the material of my shirt to hold me up. It was only then that I remembered what I was wearing.
After the emotionally charged day before, when I woke up with a headache I’d gone in search of an old comfort I hadn’t allowed myself in at least two years. I’d slipped out of my PJs and dug around in the very back of my bottom drawer for an ancient T-shirt that had been washed so many times, the screen-printing on the front of it was indecipherable. But I still remembered what had been there. How the letters spelling out Music City arched over an acoustic guitar.
Roan’s old T-shirt had become a favorite of mine to sleep in when we’d been together. After we broke up, I found it hanging in the closet, forgotten and left behind when I’d forced him to pack his things and leave.
For the first few years after the breakup, I’d slept every night in the damn shirt, needing that piece of him close to me. Finally, over time, I was able to let go of the crutch, but there were times that still creeped up on me and I’d need that comfort again. Those times had become fewer and further between in recent years, but I’d needed it again last night.
I couldn’t have possibly known he’d show up on my doorstep when I was at my worst and catch me wearing it. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to karma recently, but it seemed that bitch had it out for me.
“You-you can’t just come in here and—” My pathetically weak argument died on my tongue when I caught a whiff of something. I spotted the Muffin Top bakery box he set down on my entryway table, and at smell of fried dough, my stomach betrayed me.
“Oh god,” I let out as my stomach dropped like I was on the highest dip of the world’s largest rollercoaster. “I have to—”
That was all I managed to say before clamping my lips between my teeth and slapping a hand over my mouth as I spun around and raced for the small half bath off the living room.
I hit my knees as soon as I made it through the door and slid the rest of the way to the toilet, barely making it in time before my stomach won the battle. I didn’t understand how a person could keep throwing up when there was literally nothing left for them to purge.
I vaguely felt the soft brush of fingertips at the back of my neck as Roan gathered my hair into his fist, holding it back as I hugged the toilet. God, talk about humiliating! Every woman wishes the first time they saw their ex after a heartbreaking breakup that they’d be at their best, in a killer outfit that showcased their best features, with flawless makeup and hair that defied humidity and weather to lookkiller.
At that moment I would have given anything to simply be in a clean pair of sweats andnothurling my guts up. Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards.
Once I finally finished, my body sagged with exhaustion. I folded one arm on the toilet seat and laid my head down, unable to do anything else. Thank god I’d just cleaned the other day, or this whole situation would have been even grosser than it already was.
“You finished?” Roan asked, the sound of his voice causing a jolt. I’d been so busy puking I’d forgotten he was there.
“Ugh,” I groaned pathetically. “My body is turning on me. And it’s starting with my love of food. I think this is the end.”
I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. My body felt like it had been put through the wringer, and I didn’t even have enough strength to lift my head.
I heard him chuckle quietly behind me, but didn’t have the energy to turn around and tell him to get the hell out of my house.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly, rubbing a hand down my back. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He bent and scooped me up off the floor, and if I’d been in the right frame of mind, I would have fought out of his grip and probably given him a kick to the nuts to go with the black eyes. “Don’t call me that, either. And put me down. I don’t need your help,” I argued weakly, but there was no point to it. My head flopped back like a dead fish and my limbs hung limp.
If only my sense of smell was as foggy as my head, because being in his arms brought mewaytoo close to his neck, and the smell of his cologne invaded the one sense that still seemed to be working right. And god, talk about cruel, because it was almost as if I’d just stepped back in time. He smelled exactly as he had back when we’d been together. In those days, we didn’t have much money, but I always splurged during Christmas and his birthday to buy a bottle of his favorite cologne, because it had quickly become my favorite too.
When we’d snuggled, I used to press my face into his neck, content to just lie there and pull his scent into my lungs. I’d fall asleep breathing him in at night. And at that very moment, as he carried me to bed, there was no avoiding the aroma, and it was just as incredible as it had been in the past. Hell, if I wasn’t so dehydrated from puking my guts up, I probably would have started crying.
He carried me down the hall, peeking his head past open doors until he found my room. Once inside, he laid me softly onto the bed and pulled the covers over me, tucking them in tight around my body.
He brushed the sweat-damp hair back from my forehead and let his hand linger, checking for fever.
