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“Trust me, I feel like I’m on my deathbed.”
“Period cramps?” he questions with a frown.
Christian is so perceptive he might as well be a mind reader. Sometimes I’m worried he can tell exactly what I’m thinking just by the look on my face. It’s annoying.
“My uterus is punishing me for not getting knocked up this month,” I moan, curling into a fetal position as I’m hit with a painful wave of pain that rips through me like a serrated blade, forcing me to double over.
I think Christian wants to smile at my words. My pulse roars in my ears and I whimper in pain, causing his amber eyes to darken.
“You’re in pain,” he says softly.
“Yes, that’s what the term ‘cramps’ connotes.”
He shakes his head. “Even now you can’t help being a smartass can you?”
“Stop talking to me. I can’t deal with your voice right now.”
To my surprise, he actually falls silent. I shut my eyes to deal with the pain and by the time I open them again, the door is closing behind him.
Please tell me he didn’t just leave me when I’m about to die.
A part of me was a little bit glad he came to check up on me. It means he cares, and maybe, just maybe, I occupy more of his headspace than he’s letting on. Christian doesn’t seem to care about much else but his family, the D’Angelos, and work. But once in a while, I get a sneak peek into the person lying underneath all the duty and I somewhat like that person.
With a sniff, I bury myself under the comforter again, prepared to go to sleep. Let’s be real, though, there’s no way in hell I’m getting any sleep tonight. Not when my insides are being torn apart.
Gotta love being a woman.
Christian returns an hour later. I pop open an eyelid to watch him as he walks into my room, holding two grocery bags. My eyes widen and I force myself to sit up while he dumps the bags on the table. I arch an eyebrow in question.
“What’s all that?” I ask when he faces me.
He lets out a breath. “Care package. I wasn’t sure what you use but I talked to a doctor and he suggested some ibuprofen to deal with the pain. So I got you some.”
My heart warms as he opens one of the bags. He pulls out a water bottle and a bottle of pills. He walks over and hands it to me. I collect them gingerly.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say warily, accepting the pills and water.
His gaze is on my face as I use the drugs before returning the bottle to him.
“I wanted to,” he replies gruffly. “What’s your favorite chocolate?”
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“I read that some women enjoy eating chocolate to help with their periods.”
I stare at him for several uncomfortable seconds. “You did research and you called a doctor…” I trail off. “Why?”
“Because you’re in pain. I wasn’t just going to sit back and watch you in agony. I wanted to help you feel better.”
“But why? Why do you want to help me feel better?”
“Seriously,tesoro, this line of questioning is tedious. Do you want some chocolates or not? I’ve got two bags full of it.”
My mouth curls into a smile. “A Snickers would be nice.”
He grabs a bar and hands it to me. I tear the wrapper and bite into it with a soft moan. Christian continues to watch me as I scarf down the entire bar. When I’m done, he collects the wrapper. There’s no warning when he presses the back of his hand to my damp forehead.
“You have a fever,” he says in accusation.
