When Sky Breaks: Burn & Break Duet Book 2

33. Sky

Upon waking,I swallow and a burn in the base of my throat feels exactly like I ate Phoebe’s super spicy chili.

Oh god. No, no, no.

Burying my head under my pillow, I groan and try to breathe through a stuffy nose. I can’t be sick, not around Foster. His immune system is down because of the chemo. Crap. And Trek is out of town for another work thing of his.

Distressed, I roll over and drink some water from the bottle I keep on my nightstand, wincing as it slides down my swollen throat.

What am I going to do? I have to take Foster to his appointment tomorrow, and as the flush creeps over my cheeks and a chill wracks my body, I realize I’m feverish. There’s also the haunted house I’m supposed to be working on and a million other things that need my attention. Not to mention the encounter I had with August. I grab my phone and sink back into my pillows.

“Honey, why are you calling me from your room? Wait, are you not home? Did you stay the night with someone?” Foster’s voice morphs from concern to amusement.

Did he already forget I told him about breaking things off with Johnny? “No, I’m in my room. I’m sick.”

A long pause. “Is that, uh, code for something?”

Huh? “Dad! It means I’m sick. What did you thin—oh heck no, I’m not pregnant. Why does everyone think when a woman is sick, she’s automatically pregnant?”

“Was that a serious question for me?”

I let out an exasperated chuckle. “No, it means I can’t come out of my room—I can’t get you sick. Do you have anyone you can call to take you to your appointment tomorrow? I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t handle it if something happened because of me.”

I hear his voice echoing from in the house. “No worries, baby girl, I got someone I can call.”

Relieved, I tap end call and try to get comfortable, covering my tired eyes with my forearm. My body aches, and dealing with this is the last thing I want to do. But I can deal with it. I’m a nurse, for goodness’ sake. This alone makes us the worst patients, but I’ll sleep it off, and everything will be fine.

What’s probably several hours later, a knock on my door rouses me. Bleary-eyed, I sit up and squeak out, my throat spasming from the pain. “Dad, don’t come in here!”

“It’s me.”

Frozen solid, I blink at my closed door. “August?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Foster called me.”

I hang my head, feeling a headache coming on. “Of course he did,” I grumble, swiping back the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my scalp. I’m going to have to change my sheets later. They’re soaked. “You can’t come in here. I don’t want to get you sick, either.”

“I know. I have a plan.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to my house if you think you can drive yourself over there, and you’re going to stay until you feel better. I’ll sleep here on the couch and take care of your dad.”

I must be delirious. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, Shortcake, I’m serious. Do you think you’re able to drive?”

I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this as I clear my throat, wincing as it hurts. “Yeah, you’re not that far, are you?”

“No, ten minutes tops.”

A few erratic beats of my heart later and he speaks again. It sounds clearer, so he must be right against the door. “I’m sorry for being stupid about the whole Johnny thing. I don’t have any excuses except I turn into a complete idiot around you. Will you please let me help take care of you?”

That brings out a small, pained chuckle from me, and I sag my achy shoulders. The idea of someone else taking the reins and me getting to just rest? Sounds amazing and not something I allow myself to do often. August knows this. “Fine. I accept your apology. And yes, I’ll go to your house.”

After I agree with this crazy plan, my stomach flutters with a million butterfly wings. I’m going to his house. His personal space.

He sounds relieved. “Good. I have a guest room, and you can have anything you want in the house. I left some medicine out and some stuff for you in the bathroom.”

Damn, he really thought this through.

“Why would you do this for me?”

There’s a heavy silence outside the door, and I wait, clutching at the hem of my T-shirt.

“Thought it was clear I’d do anything for you. I need you to understand that. In sickness and in health.”

I pause the twisting of my fingers in my shirt. “Um, we’re not married.”

He chuckles at my tone. “Doesn’t matter. I want to help you. And your dad. Please let me.”

Being fiercely independent has its positives and negatives. I’ve grown into an adult capable of completing adult things. Paying rent and electricity bills, building a high-yield savings account, and navigating rush hour traffic on little to no sleep after a brutal twelve-hour shift, still cooking dinner without burning the house down.

But letting someone take care of me has been a challenge. Those I relied on to keep me alive and safe were the ones who hurt me. Driven by a need to be the one to help instead of the other way around makes letting go of those expectations difficult. I don’t want to be seen as weak.

My gaze snags on the flowers resting in a glass vase on my dresser. Despite what he saw at the restaurant and the assumption he made, August pushed through his self-doubt and still offers a piece of him freely, not knowing if the outcome involves him at all. If he can do that for me, then I can do this for him.

Losing all ability to fight, I drag myself from the bed and throw on some clean clothes. “Let me get my stuff together. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“That’s a good girl.”

Well. That didn’t make me feel all sorts of warm, now did it? It’s clearly the raging fever.

It’s not, and you know it. After all, you kissed him.

After stuffing random clothes from my suitcase I had yet to empty, and toiletries into a duffel bag, I creep slowly to the door. “Okay, I’m coming out. Stay back, please.”

I open the door and put an arm over my mouth, so I don’t breathe any damn germs into the air. I think I have the flu or a bad cold, and it’s probably floating all over my room.

August’s soft smile greets me as he leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Through the thick haze of sickness, there’s no sense in denying he’s gorgeous. It makes my heart crash against my chest in a dangerous rhythm.

“There she is. You don’t look too bad.”

I crack a smile behind my arm and roll my eyes. “Stop, I look like an ogre.”

“A hot one,” he boldly says, his grin widening as he holds out a hand. “Give me your bags. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Keeping my arm over my face, I hand him my stuff and walk past him, ignoring how he makes me giddy even as I feel like death warmed over.

Once outside, August presses his house key into my palm after tossing my bags in the back seat. I get in and close the door to keep some distance, even though the window is down. Obviously, to keep him from getting my germs. Not because I want to kiss those lips of his again.

“I’ll check on you tomorrow, okay?” He crouches and brushes back a strand of my hair.

I shiver. Most definitely from the fever and not from his gentle touch.

“Thank you,” I say, a little out of breath, and start the car. “I really don’t know how to pay you back for this. It means a lot.”

He rests his chin on his hands, and the softness on his face nearly undoes me. “Shortcake, I don’t need your thanks. When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them and those they care about. Foster and I got this. We’ll be okay. Time to take care of you.”

Hearing him say that breaks off another huge chunk of my walls. He’s not only saying it, he’s showing it, and that’s all I really wanted. Proof he’s here for me. For good.

After he gives me his address to put in my GPS, he grips the seal of the door tightly. “There’s something you need to know before you go.”

I swallow and try not to wince at the pain. “What?” I croak.

If he’s about to crush me, I will drive to the other side of the continent and never return except to collect my father and maybe Trek if he’s nice.

“There’s another lady who lives there.”

My mouth falls open, shock bleeding into my face. “Excuse me?”

He smirks. “It’s not what you think, but if she wants to sleep with you, just kick her out, and she’ll go to her favorite spot.”

My eyes ping back and forth between his, full of amusement, the gray a shade brighter than usual. Finally, through the fog of illness, I get it. “You have a pet?”

He nods, that stubborn lock of hair hanging over his forehead before he pushes it away. “I think you’ll love her.”

Refusing to give me any more information, he stands and shoves his hands in his pockets, stepping back so I don’t run over his feet.

Before I raise the windows, he calls out, “Text me if you need anything. No matter what it is, I’ll get it for you.”

This time, I believe him.