Chapter 3 Sorrel #2
I try to take it but my fingers are shaking too much. The spoon and its contents would definitely end up in my lap or on these probably-thousand-dollar sheets.
He watches my failed attempt for approximately two seconds before making a decision. “Open.”
Oh no.
He’s not going to--
He absolutely is.
“I can feed myself,” I protest, face flaming.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.” The spoon moves toward my mouth. “Open.”
This is so happening.
A billionaire who looks like a Calvin Klein model is spoon-feeding me soup like I’m a toddler.
I open my mouth because resisting seems both pointless.
The broth is warm and salty and perfect.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I taste it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, refilling the spoon. “Again.”
Something about his voice when he says that makes me tremble in a way that has nothing to do with the fever. Or maybe everything to do with the fever. It’s hard to tell at this point.
I should probably be mortified by all this, but the way he’s looking at me, focused and intent, like nothing else in the world matters right now except making sure I eat soup... yeah.
That’s doing things to me.
He feeds me the entire bowl with patient efficiency.
Watching to make sure I swallow each bite with those blue eyes that miss nothing.
Wiping my chin when I drip a little. His thumb brushes my lower lip once and I have to remind myself that I’m sick and this is not the time to think about how that casual touch made my breath catch.
“There,” he says when it’s empty. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Mortifying,” I lie. “That was mortifying.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You’ll survive the embarrassment.”
He sets the bowl aside and picks up the cloth, rewetting it in the cold water. When he presses it against my forehead again, his gently fingers brush my hairline and my heart skips a beat.
“Your hair’s sweaty,” he observes.
“Yes, I know,” I reply. “Add that to the list of ways I’m disgusting right now.”
“Come on.” He’s standing, all six-foot-plus of him looming over the bed as he reaches for me again.
“Where are we going now?” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
“I’m washing your hair. You’ll feel better.”
“You’re--what?” I must have heard him wrong. The fever is definitely affecting my hearing.
But he’s already scooping me up again, and God, being in his arms is becoming dangerously familiar. The solid warmth of his chest, the easy way he carries me, like this is just something he does. Like taking care of sick grad students who insult him is a regular day for him.
He carries me to the en-suite bathroom and sets me on the closed toilet seat, then plugs the sink and starts running warm water.
“Um. You don’t have to--”
“I know.” He tests the water temperature with his wrist. I watch the movement, transfixed by something as simple as him checking water temperature. This man probably has people to do everything for him, yet he’s here, taking care of me all by himself. “Lean forward.”
This is a fever dream.
Yes. That’s what it is.
I’m actually still unconscious and dying on the bathroom floor and this is all a hallucination.
But the edge of the sink is solid and cold against my forearms when I lean forward. And his hands are real when they start working through my tangled hair.
He’s gentle. Surprisingly gentle for someone with such large hands.
Those long fingers work out the knots carefully, and I’m trying not to think about how good it feels to have him touching me. How his hands in my hair are making me want things I definitely shouldn’t want from a stranger I met six hours ago while hypothermic.
The smell of shampoo fills his expensive bathroom.
The fingers of one hand work in slow circles while he supports my head with his other hand, and oh God, that feels amazing.
Too amazing. Like, how do I deserve this? All this. Him.
I have to bite my lip to keep from making embarrassing sounds.
Oh no.
Don’t cry.
Do not cry.
You’ve cried enough today.
But something about his hands in my hair, about him taking care of me when I’m at my absolute worst, when I have nothing to offer him except humiliation and soggy twenty-dollar bills, makes tears leak out anyway.
“Hey.” His voice softens. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I’m definitely crying now, the tears mixing with the water running down my face. “Why... why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because you’re sick.” He rinses my hair carefully, one hand cupped at my hairline to keep water out of my eyes.
Those careful, deliberate movements that make me feel cared for in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“And you’re in my house. And despite what you think about ‘rich assholes,’ I’m not going to let you suffer when I can help. ”
I feel mortification rising. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You weren’t wrong.” He wraps my hair in a towel. “I am an asshole. In general. Just not tonight.”
He carries me back to bed one more time, and I let myself sink into him this time. Into the solid warmth of him, the way being held by him makes me feel safe and protected.
I want to stay here, being carried by this beautiful man who smells like woodsmoke and cologne, forever.
He tucks me in like I’m five years old, and I watch his face as he does it.
The concentration in those blue eyes, the way his hair falls forward when he leans over me.
He’s so close I could reach up and touch his face if I had the energy.
Could trace the line of that gorgeous jaw, feel if it’s as rough as it looks.
Focus.
Stop ogling the man who’s literally saving your life right now.
He puts a fresh cloth on my forehead. Checks the water glass to make sure it’s full.
“Sleep,” he orders. “I’ll be right here.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” He settles into the armchair beside the bed, all that height folding into the chair, and even exhausted and fever-addled I think about how good he looks sitting there.
“Sleep,” he commands.
I drift in and out after that. Fever dreams mixing with reality until I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
At some point I’m crying about Dr. Chang. About disappointing everyone. About my parents working so hard and sacrificing so much and I can’t even keep a working backup drive.
“None of that matters right now.” His voice comes from somewhere in the dark. Then his hand is in mine, warm and real. “Just rest.”
“Three months of data,” I sob. “Gone. All gone.”
“You’ll figure it out.” His thumb moves across my knuckles in a slow rhythm that’s probably meant to be soothing but is also making me hyperaware of his touch even through the fever. “Just sleep.”
“I chose the research. I always choose the research. That’s why I’m alone.” I’m really losing it now, saying things I’d never say if I weren’t delirious.
“You’re not alone.” The chair creaks as he leans forward, and through my half-closed eyes I see his face closer now, those sharp features softened with concern. “I’m right here.”
But for how long? I want to ask.
But I’m too tired to form more words. I just hold onto his hand like it’s the only real thing in a world that won’t stop spinning.
I close my eyes while still holding his hand and finally a deep, restful sleep finds me.