Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
ZARA
The morning after the LA concert, I wake up feeling…off.
At first, I think it’s just warm in the room. Or maybe it’s the hot man snuggled up next to me. But then I quickly realize it’s me. I’m hot. Not just hot. I’m burning up. I throw off the covers and feel the breeze from the air conditioner hit my sweat-soaked skin. It makes me shiver.
Shit, that’s not good.
I instantly shift into doctor mode.
Hangover? No.
We didn’t go out last night after the concert. After Hendrix’s family thoroughly congratulated him and told him how happy and proud they were, the two of us came back here and celebrated privately.
A shiver races up my spine that has nothing to do with my current symptoms. The way that man worships my body, like it’s his sole purpose in life…I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough.
I’m not sure I want to.
Seeing the way he stood up for me in front of Tanner. The way he was ready to tear apart the world after he admitted what I had been suspecting for a while now.
Our entire marriage was a farce.
I thought it would hurt more, but hearing him say it out loud was, in a way, sort of cathartic. I can move on and not feel an ounce of guilt for it. He never loved me, so why should I mourn something that was never real in the first place?
Especially when what is happening between Hendrix and me is real. So real it sometimes scares me.
I felt some of the walls I was holding up collapse last night.
I loved meeting his family. He’s so close to them. It reminds me a lot of my own, and I can’t wait to introduce him to them.
“Hey.” I hear Hendrix’s soft voice. His voice is groggy as he wakes, sitting up next to me. I turn to face him, and the warm smile on his face instantly fades. “What’s the matter?”
His eyes search my face, down my body, and back up again. I feel gross, and when I self-consciously tug at the tank top I threw on late last night, I realize it’s nearly soaked through.
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I don’t feel well.”
His hand goes to my forehead. “You feel warm.”
I give him an amused grin as I swing my legs off the bed. “That is not an accurate way to check for a fever.”
“Yeah, well, it always seemed to work for my mom.”
I rise to my feet, determined to grab my medical bag and a fresh T-shirt, but before I can take a single step, my head starts to spin.
“Zara?” I can hear the note of concern in his voice as I reach for the side of the bed. His hand is around my waist, guiding me back down to the bed before I have a chance to respond to him.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “Can you grab me my—” But he’s already halfway across the room to get it.
“On it,” he says over his shoulder. A moment later, he returns with my med bag, a new shirt—Is he telepathic?—and a bottle of water.
He kneels in front of me and unzips the bag, then lets me take over, knowing I have the inside organized within an inch of my life. I grab the thermometer, but he swiftly swipes it out of my hand.
“Hey!” I protest. “Who’s the professional here?”
“Who’s the one who can barely stand?” he counters.
“Fine. I guess it’s not that hard.” I gesture toward the thermometer and then to my forehead, prompting him to roll his eyes.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Doc.” He turns it on and holds it close to my forehead, waits for the beep, and then sighs. “Looks like you’re not going anywhere today.” He turns it around to show me. It’s just under one hundred and one.
Dammit.
I glance down at my watch. We’re supposed to be at his family’s house in two hours, and now he will have to go without me.
“I’m so sorry,” I start to say, but I have to stop myself because my stomach lurches, and suddenly I’m leaping off the bed and sprinting toward the bathroom.
Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
I make it just in time to heave my guts into the toilet.
It feels like I’m there for an hour at least, but it’s probably a minute tops.
By the time I’m done, I’m physically exhausted.
I didn’t realize just how weak I was feeling until my body decided to try to exorcise a demon.
But now I’m feeling everything, and it all hurts.
My whole fucking body feels like it got run over by a truck.
“You okay?”
I hadn’t even noticed he was here. But as I flush the toilet and grab some toilet paper to wipe the tears quickly, and whatever else is on my face, I realize he’s been here the whole damn time. I think he even held my hair back.
I groan, letting my head fall back to rest against the wall. “You did not need to see that.”
“Did you think I was just going to stand out there while you were getting so sick you started to sob?”
I was sobbing? I don’t exactly remember that, but it explains the tears.
“I hate throwing up, so I wouldn’t blame you. Give me blood and guts all damn day long, but this? No fucking thank you.” My voice is hoarse as I make a valiant effort to stand. I can’t even get halfway. It’s pretty pathetic. Hendrix steps in, wraps an arm around my waist, and lifts me up.
“Well, I guess we make a good team, don’t we?”
I swallow, feeling a surge of emotions catch in my throat. “Yeah. I guess we do.”
He holds my gaze for a moment before he says, “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
He takes a step toward the door. “Wait!” I exclaim. “Please let me preserve an ounce of dignity. Can I brush my teeth first?”
His eyes sparkle with warmth, and he chuckles. “Sure, but then it’s straight to bed.”
“Yes, doctor,” I quip as he helps me walk the short distance to the counter. He promptly lifts me so I can sit on it rather than stand another minute on my Jell-O legs.
Grabbing my toothbrush, he lets out an amused pfft. “I would rather we take up role-playing when you’re not puking your guts out, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
He slathers it in a bit of toothpaste, wets it, and hands it to me. “So am I the nurse in this scenario? Since you’re the doctor?”
“What? No. You’re the rock star,” he says, as if it’s an obvious conclusion.
“We’re switching roles in this fantasy. I get to wear the white coat, and you’ll be the one with the bass strapped to your hip.
” He pauses and swallows. “Fuck. Maybe this was a bad conversation to start. Now, I’m getting hard at the idea of you holding my bass. ”
I lean over the sink and spit out my toothpaste.
“You could always teach me,” I suggest. “That would be one way of making your fantasy come to life. Or at least part of it. And if you’re really into wearing my lab coat, I could let you borrow it.
” I look at him in the mirror’s reflection, my gaze running up and down his muscled frame.
“Pretty sure you’ll rip it Hulk-style the second you put it on, though. ”
I double-blink, and Hendrix laughs. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I confess, my gaze stuck on his in the mirror. “Why is that so hot?”
“’Cause you’re obsessed with me. Obviously,” he says with a cocky grin as he helps me off the counter. After I take a few wobbly steps, he bends down and swoops me up into his arms.
My stomach flutters, and this time, it has nothing to do with being sick.
Yeah, he might be right.
I think I am a little obsessed with Hendrix Creed.
After he gets me settled back in bed, he does what he does best and orders way too much room service, saying he doesn’t know what will jive with my stomach.
Honestly, I’m not sure anything will.
I haven’t had to dash back into the bathroom yet, but it’s only been an hour, so I’m not holding my breath. For now, though, I’ve managed to keep down the little bit of water I drank to take the Tylenol for my fever.
And now, I’m enjoying the view of a freshly showered Hendrix walking into the main part of the suite in nothing but a low-slung towel and a knowing smirk. “See anything you like?”
“Maybe if you drop that towel a little lower,” I tease, even though my words lack the conviction they usually do. I don’t think I could follow through with any of the lewd thoughts going through my mind right now, even if I tried.
For someone whose job is to care for sick people, I’m a total hypocrite when it comes to being sick myself. At work, I always emphasize the importance of rest and downtime when a patient is unwell, but when I’m the one affected, I just want to get it over with. Rest? Who has time for that?
Yes, I know. I’m a terrible patient.
“Honestly, I’m mostly jealous that you’re clean,” I confess. “Even with the new shirt you got me and clean teeth, I still feel disgusting.”
“Well, that’s easy to solve. We can get you in the shower after we eat,” he says over his shoulder as he rummages through his suitcase. “Or rather, after I eat and we cross our fingers and spoon-feed you broth and crackers one at a time.”
“We?” I focus on that one word he keeps repeating. “What do you mean, we? You have to leave for your parents’ house in less than an hour.”
“I’m not going.”
I sit up straight and instantly regret it. The room tilts, and I clutch the side of my head as a spike of pain shoots through it. “What do you mean you’re not going?”
I feel the bed dip as he comes to sit next to me. He’s now wearing a pair of gray joggers. His chest is bare, and that little cupid tattoo is staring back at me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve touched and traced it with my fingertips. Kissed it with my lips. Licked it with my tongue.
It’s different from mine. It’s bigger. More masculine, if you can imagine a baby angel being such a thing. But every time I see it, I picture a younger version of him walking into a tattoo studio and sitting down in a chair to have it inked on his skin.
And thinking of me the whole time.
It humbles me.
It makes me feel things I probably shouldn’t feel a month in, especially not after my recent divorce. But I can’t help it.
I have questions I want to ask him when I look at this tattoo. Questions I’m too afraid to vocalize…
Did you ever think we’d see each other again?
Did you wish for it?
Or did you just hope this little cherub would ensure you never forgot?
Because I didn’t. I never forgot.
“I mean,” he replies, gently running his hand through my hair. “I texted my family and told them you were sick and that we couldn’t make it.” I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. “Did you really think I would just leave you here?”
Yes. Kind of, I want to say.
“I’m not used to being taken care of. Well, not anymore,” I amend.
“Growing up, my parents were the perfect duo. She was the panicker, always jumping to the worst possible conclusion. I couldn’t even sneeze without her rushing me to the doctor.
But my dad was the practical one, stepping in when shit went sideways and someone needed to keep it together.
They took care of us, and I always felt protected. ”
“But you didn’t with Tanner?” It’s not a question. Not really.
“The first time I got sick when we were dating, I texted him to let him know I wasn’t feeling well, and his response was something like, ‘Well, good thing you’re a med student. Let me know when you’re feeling better so I can get those notes you took.’”
“Jesus, Zara. That’s cruel.”
“At the time, I thought he was just being practical. I was a med student. I did know how to take care of myself. After we got married, I continued with that same belief. Now I was a doctor. I didn’t need the help of my husband, my parents, or anyone else to take care of me when I could do it myself. ”
“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should have to,” he utters, confirming the words I’ve been too afraid to say aloud for far too long. “Everyone deserves to be taken care of. Will you let me?”
Even after all that, I hesitate. “But your family…”
“Will still be there tomorrow. And the next day. They’re not going anywhere, Cupid.”
“But won’t they be mad?”
“At who? At you for being sick?” He scoffs, shifting to fluff the pillows behind me. Then, he gently eases me back down on the bed and runs a sly hand across my forehead, clearly checking my temperature.
He’s not fooling anyone.
“Or at me for staying here to care for my sick girlfriend?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyes go wide. “Not that you’re my girlfriend. It’s just that they accidentally called you that a few times and—” He sucks in a huge gulp of air, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You gonna survive that slip-up?” I tease.
“Probably not. I think I just died a little.”
“I actually think I might be okay with you calling me your girlfriend. That is, if you want to?”
Those blue eyes go all round and soft, and then he breaks into a heart-stopping grin. He bends down to kiss me, but my palm shoots out and stops him before he can reach my face. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re lucky I’m even letting you stay in this room.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m not sure if anyone ever told you how germs spread, but kissing is a pretty good way to do it.”
“So, you mean, like all that kissing we did last night? Not to mention all the other stuff…”
“Shit. Yeah. Oh my god, what if I get you sick, Hen? What if you miss a concert because of me?”
His face softens, and his hand brushes away an errant piece of hair from my face.
“Then I miss a concert.” He shrugs. “Tommy from the opening band can fill in for me, and my doctor girlfriend can help nurse me back to health.” My insides instantly melt at his use of the word girlfriend.
I hadn’t planned on making it official with Hendrix, but after spending the evening with his family and seeing how he cared for me this morning, it just felt right.
Now that it’s decided, I’m definitely on board.
“Okay.” I relent.
“Great.” His face lights up, just as a light knock can be heard at the door.
He grabs the remote from the nightstand and hands it to me.
“Pick a movie, Cupid. Because after we eat and I give you a very thorough washing in the shower, we’re going to have our first movie marathon as boyfriend and girlfriend. ”
I feel like absolute shit, but I can’t help but grin.
It turns out to be the best sick day of my life.