Chapter 23 Ryder #2
She shrugs out of her coat, letting it fall to the ground on top of her shoes.
I thought the raincoat would have at least protected her torso, but this kind of rain defies all laws of logic.
And suddenly I’m incredibly thankful I chose this moment to stop us.
She fumbles with the fastening of her overalls, her fingers too numb to grab hold.
“May I?” I ask, waiting until she nods to undo the straps.
The denim sticks to her and she has to push it down over her hips and her legs.
Together, we pull soaking wet clothes off of her arms and legs and leave them in a pile on the floor. Underneath all of her soaking wet layers, she’s in only a pair of spandex shorts and a crop top.
I run my hands along her arms and she shivers at the touch.
I’m not an expert in hypothermia, but she seems off. Maybe she’s tired. Overworked, definitely. Cold as ice, yes.
And while my brain spins in every direction trying to figure out the right thing to do, she sinks straight to the kitchen floor, leaning up against the wall and folding her arms around her knees.
She lets her head hang, and when she wipes her face with her hands—not her nose, but her cheeks—I realize she’s crying.
And I decide that I have one singular goal that I will achieve if it means the death of me.
I am going to make this woman feel better.
I kick my shoes off and pad into her living room, grabbing every damn sunflower blanket I can find and tossing them on top of her.
She grabs them but doesn’t pull them around her.
It’s more like she’s clenching them for comfort.
So I do the only thing I can think of and pull my rain jacket off, tossing it on the floor on top of her rainy clothes.
I add my sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath to the pile, and then I sink to the floor across from her, tugging the blankets from her grasp.
She wipes her face again, quick to erase any evidence that she broke. Even if it was only for a second.
She watches me with raised eyebrows, only gasping in surprise when I grab her hips and pull her into my lap, her legs falling easily to either side of me.
And fuck, I thought she was cold before.
Now that she’s pressed up against my chest, I feel like I’m going hypothermic.
“Christ, why are you so hot?” she asks, pushing away from me.
“Because you’re dangerously cold,” I say, pulling the blankets over her shoulders and leaning back against her kitchen wall. I run my hands along her back to create some heat from friction and gently press her face into my neck.
She needs every inch of warmth she can get.
“It’s not cold enough to be dangerously cold.”
I shake my head. “It is if you’re drenched.”
She grumbles but doesn’t try to move away, and after a few moments, she relaxes into me.
“My whole body feels like it’s on fire,” she mumbles into my neck.
“I know. If it’s any consolation, mine feels like I just entered the North Pole.”
She moves like she’s going to sit up and glare at me, but I tighten my arms around her, keeping her pressed against my chest.
When she nestles her face further into my skin, I let my arms drop, my clasped hands resting easily on her lower back. I press my cheek against her head, squeezing her face in the crook of my shoulder, and her body curls tighter around me.
We sit like that for a few minutes, limbs intertwined on her kitchen floor, and I get used to the feeling of her on top of me.
The pressure of her body on mine and the way she sniffles into my neck every so often.
My body relaxes, and as if my hands have a mind of their own, I gently run them across her skin.
Her back, where her crop top is still wet and sticking to her skin.
Her waist, which—if I’m not just feeling what I want to feel—is getting warmer one degree at a time.
I run them along her thighs and her shins, still freezing from the cold, and rest them on her icicle feet.
And after a few minutes, she lifts her head. “I’m fucking freezing,” she admits.
“There she is,” I say, relieved that she’s at least making progress.
With a nod, I lift her off me, turning her slightly and positioning her on the floor between my legs. I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight into my chest, making sure the blanket is up around her neck.
“How are you so warm?” she asks, wiping her red nose with the back of her hand.
“I was wearing three layers and my raincoat apparently functions significantly better than yours.”
She hums. “My raincoat is technically a windbreaker. So, that might have something to do with it.”
“Evie,” I scold.
“It looks like the same material! They should have a disclaimer or something if it’s not waterproof.”
“You mean like calling it a wind breaker instead of a raincoat?”
She’s quiet for a second. “Be nice to me, I’m cold.”
I tug her down into my chest again and squeeze. Push the wet hair from her face and pull her closer. I rest my chin on the top of her head, and after a few moments of sitting like that, brush my lips over her forehead.
And I pretend like it doesn’t send a little shiver down my spine when she presses in closer like that was just what she needed.
I run my fingers along her back absentmindedly, the stress of taking care of a human ice cube slowly subsiding with every second we sit like this together.
I’m trying to warm her up, but something about this is really helping me.
She sniffles again, and my attention goes back to our current situation.
“Warming up?” I ask, running my hands along her upper arms when she lifts her head from my chest.
She nods, and I brush her unruly hair out of her face again as she wipes her nose. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something but can’t seem to get it out.
“You okay?”
She turns rapidly, only barely catching her sneeze in her elbow.
“Bless you.”
She groans in response as her head hits my chest.
A few seconds later, it happens again.
And I let out a long breath, closing my eyes and holding her tight against me as the realization dawns on me.
Evie is sick.