Chapter 11
Eleven
Finn
Kiss me.
Please, kiss me.
God, I can’t believe I said that.
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to believe it was a dream. A nightmare.
Then I saw the medicine on the nightstand, the crackers and the glass of water…and I knew.
Knew.
It wasn’t a dream. Wasn’t a nightmare.
What I said was real—every humiliating second of it.
Yes, I was delirious. Yes, the memories are a little hazy around the edges. But…fucking hell, I begged him to kiss me.
And…he didn’t.
Which somehow makes it both better and worse.
Because he’s acting like nothing happened.
Or maybe not nothing.
He’s been in and out all morning checking on me, acting like I’m fragile.
Taking care of me.
But it’s almost like my request is a tangible thread between us—or maybe a tangible barrier, making things uncomfortable and awkward.
There’s a soft knock and I glance up, see him standing in the doorway.
Awkwardly.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I lie, reaching for the blankets, intending to toss them back and get on with things. It’s a cold. I feel like shit, but I’m not dying.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snaps.
I freeze, the blankets halfway pulled back. “What do you mean?”
“I mean”—he marches across the room, sets a mug on the table, then draws the covers back over me—“you’re going to keep your ass in bed and rest, Finley.”
I narrow my eyes. “It’s Finn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “But it’s going to be Finley unless you shut up, lie back, and fucking rest.”
I scowl at him. “I’m fine.” Except as I try to slide out from under the blankets again, my head goes woozy.
A soft curse and he takes advantage of my dizziness, nudging me back.
I collapse against the pillows.
“Rest,” he orders.
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” I mutter.
He rolls his eyes and hands me the mug. “Drink this.”
“What is it?” I ask suspiciously.
“Soup. Now drink it.”
“Why are you being so bossy?” I grouse.
“Because you’re sick and being stubborn, and you need something in your stomach so you can take some more medicine.”
“Do I need to remind you that it’s just a cold?” But I take a sip from the mug.
I do it expecting it to be bland and tasteless.
But instead…
Yum.
I take another sip.
“Good,” he praises.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t push it.”
One half of his mouth curves. “You feel up to taking some medicine?”
If it means it cuts through this awful fucking headache. Then yes.
I accept the pills he hands me, swallow them down painfully.
“Good,” he says again.
Then chuckles when I glare a second time.
I expect him to leave, like he’s been doing all day—zipping in and popping out. But this time he perches on the edge of the mattress and fusses with my blankets. “About last night.”
My stomach clenches.
God, please don’t bring up my—
“I need you to know I’m not mad about Chloe calling me.” My blast of relief is chased by guilt. He settles his hand over mine, squeezes lightly. “I didn’t bring it up to make you feel bad. I just want you to know I understand. And it all worked out okay.”
“Except Chloe was wandering in the middle of the night and—”
“I told you, Stitch. It’s not her first nighttime adventure.”
I’m frowning at Stitch, confusion rippling through me as he goes on.
“The cameras and locks did their jobs—”
“But she could have been hurt,” I whisper. “And it would have been my fault and—”
“It could have just as easily happened on my watch.” His fingers squeeze mine again. “I promise I’m not mad, and I’m not disappointed. Everything’s fine. Chloe’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. Yeah?”
Except that I asked him to kiss me.
But with guilt about Chloe rippling through me, I don’t have the energy to keep thinking about that.
Or the crippling disappointment that he didn’t.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Good.” He tucks the blankets more tightly around me then hands me the remote. “Finish your soup. Take your medicine. Drink some water. And rest.”
“When did you get so bossy?”
“The women in my life gave me lessons.” A wink before he slips from the room.
And even though I’m grumpy about it, I still follow those orders.
All of them.
“What are you watching?”
I jerk my gaze from the TV over to Rhodes then hit the button on the remote to pause the documentary.
“Nothing important,” I hedge, embarrassment settling on my mortification.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
Ugh.
And now this.
“It’s a documentary on…” His brows lift. “World War Two?” Amusement drifting across his face. “What, are you eighty years old?”
“Hush. History’s important.”
“So important”—his gaze flicks to where Chloe is sleeping next to me—“it makes my daughter pass out?”
“Your daughter is resting because she caught this same cold—”
Another thing to feel guilty about.
“—not because she’s bored.”
But maybe also…because she’s bored.
He sets a plate of food (and more of his delicious chicken noodle soup—homemade, I found out) on the bedside table then scoops up Chloe. “Resting isn’t taking care of a sick kiddo,” he says wryly.
“I think she thought she was taking care of me.”
A shake of his head, but he’s smiling as he carries her from the room.
I go back to my soup, to the plate of buttered crackers, to the medicine, and to my documentary.
Which isn’t boring.
But even as the soft voice of the narrator lulls me to sleep, I hear those awful words floating through the air.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
And my mortification grows.
Two days later, I make it all the way to the kitchen.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rhodes asks, stepping in front of me, his eyes coming to mine, his hands coming to my shoulders.
I try to sidestep him. “Making breakfast.”
My voice almost sounds normal.
Almost.
Of course, it’s still raspy and I feel ridiculously weak. “Uh,” Rhodes says. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Chloe isn’t even here, Stitch. So who are you going to cook for?”
I blink, glancing around as though my four-year-old charge is going to pop up out of nowhere. “Where is she?”
“School,” he says.
“She’s sick!”
“She’s had twenty-four hours without a fever—and Chrissy is picking her up after school for a sleepover, so don’t even try it,” he orders, turning me around and marching me out of the kitchen.
But he doesn’t guide me to the stairs.
Instead, he leads me to the couch, tucks a blanket around my legs, and hands me another mug of soup.
And turns on a new WWII documentary.
I scowl even though I’m touched. “I can—”
“Watch Chloe?” he asks. “I know you can. But you won’t be doing it tonight. Tonight, you’ll rest and tomorrow I’ll pick up Chloe from school.” He sets the remote on the TV. “After that we can talk about you resuming your duties.”
I scowl, but Pear is hopping up onto the couch next to me, curling close, her purrs vibrating through her little body.
He lifts a brow. “Do we have a deal?”
I slump deeper into the couch and sip the soup. “Yeah,” I mutter. “You have a deal.”
“Good.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch me again.
Then freezes and straightens.
Steps back.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
“Meow.”
Relieved by the distraction, I glance down at Olive, cradle her against my chest.
“Good luck at your game,” I whisper.
He sighs, whispers a quiet thanks, a soft goodbye.
Then he’s gone.
I eat. I rest. I cuddle kittens.
And when game time rolls around, I turn on the Eagles.
I watch Rhodes kick ass on the ice and even though embarrassment burns through me every time I see him, every time I remember my fever-drenched whisper in the dark, I keep watching until sleep drags me under.
And when he carries me upstairs and tucks me into my bed much, much later that night…
I want so badly for him to have given me what I begged for.
But even as I drift back into sleep, I know that will never happen.