Chapter Twelve
Seeing him like that, totally unexpected, had been like a punch to the gut. And she’d been punched in the gut before, so she
knew what she was talking about. She had done her very best to deal with the fallout of last night in the privacy of her own
room, her own bed.
She had cried after he’d left. She felt weird and shaky, ashamed about it.
There was no reason to cry. And she couldn’t figure out if it was because of talking about Tim and what he tried to do to
her, or if it was because of the sheer volume of releases she’d experienced in a row. Sexual, and emotional.
Maybe it was even because of him.
Because of all the things that he shared about himself, that made her feel tender and sorry.
She was not used to this. She didn’t like it.
And she felt, somehow, like the scales were imbalanced again.
She wanted to do something for him. Do something to ease the burden, because Lord knew he was carrying too much of it.
There was no avoiding him; that was the thing.
So exposure therapy was probably the only solution.
And that would be killing two birds with one stone. She could help him, and she could deal with the intensity of her emotion
surrounding him. Because it was just . . . It was too much. She didn’t need it.
So now she found herself following him down the dirt road, her car behind his truck, a strange echo of last night. They pulled
up to the event space, and got out.
“Okay,” she said, trying to stay brisk and certain sounding. “Let’s see it.”
She wasn’t prepared for what she saw inside. The floors were beautiful, highly polished and beautifully restored recycled
wood that gave it a rustic, but very expensive feel. A large light fixture hung down from the center, casting a beautiful
golden glow around the place. The walls were whitewashed, and there were big heavy beams stretched across the ceiling.
She could see a thousand girls wanting to get married here. It was just so . . . perfect enough that it made her almost picture
what it might be like to have a wedding.
Another gut punch, straight from her own brain.
She did not like that.
She shoved it down deep.
“It looks beautiful,” she said.
“Right. Well. I think this is what we need to do.”
He began walking her through the plans. Table placement. Space for dancing, food. There was still work that needed to be done
on the loft area, and on the bathrooms.
She took a mental note of everything. Because by day she would be working on the bar, and by late evening she was going to
be helping with this. And there wasn’t going to be anything he could do to stop her.
The next day, she came by early. And wordlessly joined him in painting some trim.
But then that meant that he followed her out to the bar and started to work with the construction crew on that. Which was
not the idea.
So in the evening, she followed him back and helped him drag tables and chairs out of the storage unit to the back of the
building. They discussed the finer points of tablecloths, flower arrangements and other decorations.
The Sullivan sisters had a greenhouse, and they ended up going over there and looking at flowers, which she had some ideas
about.
And they didn’t talk about the fact that they had slept together. They didn’t talk about the things that they had revealed
to one another. It went on like that, for a week. And every time she went to bed she was thankful that she was exhausted,
because that meant she couldn’t think about how aroused she felt every time the sheets brushed against her bare skin. How
her thoughts went directly to Denver, no matter how hard she tried to make it otherwise.
But after she’d been doing it for eight days, she noticed that she felt a little bit more run-down than normal. And by day
nine, she was starting to feel body achy.
She was very, very worried that she was sick. But she wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Especially not in front of Denver. Who
chided and lectured her on the amount of work that she was doing like it was any of his business. So whether or not she felt
slightly ill wasn’t his business either.
But of course, Denver couldn’t leave well enough alone, and maybe, just maybe, her cold was turning into something a lot more flu adjacent, and she felt a little bit weak while she was trying to move a ladder around the event space, and had to stop.
She leaned up against the wall, trying to hide the fact that she was doing anything other than taking a casual rest.
“Are you okay?” His eyes locked on to hers, and she genuinely didn’t know how to interpret the expression there.
She hadn’t seen it before.
But before she could muse on it too deeply, he was across the room, right in front of her. “You look terrible,” he said.
“Well, Denver, you really know how to flatter a girl. If you want to sleep with me again, just say so.”
She broke the unspoken rule. The one where they ignored that the sex had ever occurred by saying that. He ignored her.
“You’re sick,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said.
“Yes, you are.” He lifted his hand and pressed his palm to her forehead.
She froze. Because she really didn’t know what this was, combined with that fierce expression in his eyes, that rough hand
against her skin, but all gentle and tender like, and not even trying to take her clothes off.
“You have a fever,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said. But she shivered as she said it. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I'm just warm, because you’re touching me.”
“Knock it off,” he growled.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m more than able to finish work.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine. It’s almost time to be done anyway. I’ll just go home.”
And then there was something a lot like . . . worry in his eyes. And she suddenly realized what all of this was. Concern.
For her well-being.
No wonder it was so foreign to see.
“I’m not sending you back home by yourself. I’m taking you to the farmhouse.”
“What?”
“Don’t argue with me,” he said.
Then he swept her up into his arms, like she weighed nothing, and for a woman who was five foot nine, that was something.
She felt like she needed to do some sort of cursory resistance, so she kicked her feet a little bit, but she did feel dizzy,
and it was a revelation to be carried like this.
He ignored the kicking. He carried her out of the barn and across the gravel lot. She was thankful that everybody else had
gone home some time ago. Because she didn’t want anyone to see this. Didn’t want anyone to see her swooning in a man’s arms
like she was Scarlett O’Hara.
She didn’t wrap her arms around his neck or do anything that would make it seem like she was complicit in being carried. She
let her arms fall limp at her sides, and did nothing to help him whatsoever, but that didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“You’re a menace,” he growled as he stomped up the stairs and into the house.
She hadn’t been inside his house. He set her down, and she looked around, at the braided rugs on the floor, the homey furniture.
It was not anything she had expected from a King family dwelling.
She didn’t know what she’d expected.
A pile of rocks and maybe a dragon horde in the corner?
What she hadn’t expected was homey, brass lamps and . . . There was a doily on one of those tables.
“All my mom’s old stuff,” he said. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I’m going to take your temperature.”
“Really, as pickup lines go, that’s not a great one. Did you need me to bend over and cough?”
“I’m not taking it like that,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “I’m not wasting that sort of thing on illness.”
She snorted. “Good to know.”
She followed him into the kitchen where he opened up a cabinet and pulled a plastic bin down. It was filled with miscellaneous
medicines, and there was a thermometer sticking out of the top.
She had something like that too. Everything in it was old, because it had been a long time since she had bandaged any wounds.
Over-the-counter pain reliever was pretty much the only thing that got bought with regularity. It was funny to see how much
her life mirrored his, even in this.
“Open,” he said, holding the thermometer out to her.
“The last time we were in this position, it wasn’t a thermometer you were putting in my mouth.”
He let out a low growl, which was evidence that she was pushing it. Pushing him. Good. She was happy to do that.
She obeyed then, because there was no point arguing. He pushed the button on the thermometer, and waited for it to beep.
“Hundred and one point six,” he said when he looked at it, scowling. “You’re sick.”
“Oh, that isn’t so bad,” she said, but then she shivered, because it did feel so bad.
Actually, she was suddenly exhausted, her eyelids heavy, her whole body sluggish.
“Sheena,” he said. “I’m going to take you upstairs, and I’m going to put you to bed.”
“And?”
He leaned in, his nose almost brushing hers. “No and,” he said. “Unless the and is you’re going to get hot tea and chicken soup.”
She felt dizzy just then, and she must’ve swayed on her feet, because he reached out and caught her, holding her upright.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t know how to tell him that it wasn’t so much the illness getting to her right at this moment, but the sheer strangeness of being taken care of on this level.
It was just . . . completely unfamiliar, totally outside of her comfort zone.
And . . . maybe even a little bit wonderful, and that made her want to hiss and spit and push him away.
Sadly, she was actually sick, so she couldn’t do that.
She found herself being lifted up again, carried upstairs. He brought her into the room closest to the head of the staircase,
a feminine-looking space with a patchwork quilt on a brass frame bed.
“Penny’s old room,” he said.
They had never talked about Penny. She knew Penny, because she was a little girl in that old community that she lived in.