Chapter 17 Greedy Sons of Bitches #2
Her eyes narrow and her lips curl. She looks like a mad kitten. It’s cute as hell. And also, a little pathetic.
I show her the thermometer, and her face relaxes into resignation. She opens her mouth, and I place it under her tongue. “Atta girl,” I encourage as I turn it on.
"Stop patronizing me," she mumbles around the thermometer.
"I'm not. Now stop talking or it won't give an accurate reading," I say, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear so I can see her eyes better, which are currently shooting me a weak glare.
I scan her face and notice her nose and cheeks are a bit sunburned, and she looks a bit swollen and puffy around the eyes.
When it beeps ten seconds later, the screen is glowing red and reads 103°F. I shake the bottle of ibuprofen at her. “You’ve got a fever. You need to take some of these. Do you have some water?”
She nods at the coffee table and a glass that looks like it’s been sitting there all day. “I’ll get you some fresh. Hang on.”
I wander into the kitchen, replacing the old glass of water with ice and refilling it from the tap before heading back to the living room.
Her lower lip quivers and she hands me the bottle of ibuprofen. “I can’t open the bottle. My fingers are too weak.” Her voice cracks and tears brim.
This is Sawyer at her weakest, and if she had a choice, I doubt she'd want me here. But for some unfathomable reason, I'm glad I am.
I take the bottle, pop the lid, and shake two pills into her hand. I wrap an arm around her and get her upright before passing her the water, so she can swallow them.
“Have you eaten today?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you have the stomach flu?”
Her head goes back and forth again.
“You hungry?”
Her head bobs up and down this time, but there are tears tracking down her cheeks, and I can’t make myself get up to make her something to eat yet.
Seeing Sawyer like this is fucking killing me.
“What’s the matter?”
I swipe a tear with my thumb and she bats my hand away, trying not to seem vulnerable, but then she gives up and sags against me.
"Talk to me, Red. Tell me what's wrong."
“Lupus is a mindfuck. One day I feel fine and the next, I'm completely wiped out and can barely do anything. I hate having to rely on everyone else, and I have no idea how long this flare-up is going to last. This morning, I barely had the energy to turn the horses out, fill their water, and make it back to the couch.”
“Woah, woah, woah,” I say, like I’m talking to a skittish horse. “Slow down. You lost me.”
She wasn’t talking fast, so I know exactly what she said, but it’s the first time I’m hearing she has lupus. Tripp hadn’t mentioned it when he’d told me she wasn’t feeling well.
She scrubs the tears from her cheeks and tries to sit upright. “Shit. Forget I said anything. Can we just drop it? I’m feverish and hungry and tired. It's making me ramble.”
My thumb strokes her arm, and her skin is heated enough to remind me I should do something more about her fever and the fact that she’s hungry.
“Alright,” I agree reluctantly. “Lay back down. I’m going to get a cool washcloth and then I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to do this. You shouldn't even be here,” she grumbles.
I tuck her hair behind her ear, letting my hand linger on the back of her neck as my thumb traces the line of her jaw. “I owe you, remember?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Thanks, Wes.”
I’m not sure if she’s thanking me for taking care of her or for dropping the conversation. I won't forget what she said, though. I’ll ask her about it when she isn’t fighting a 103° fever.
I make sure she’s comfortable with a cool washcloth on the back of her neck and forehead before I head into the kitchen to scrounge up something for us to eat. Once that’s done and Sawyer is eating, I excuse myself, walking out to the porch so I can call Pops.
“Hello?” Pops answers after the third ring.
“Hey. I won’t be home tonight. Sawyer’s sick and I don’t feel right leaving her here by herself all night.”
“You know, if you’re sleeping with the neighbor girl, you can just tell me, Wes. I’m a grown man. I can handle it. No need to make up stories. It’s easy enough to see the way you’ve been lookin’ at her and cookin’ her dinner the other night and all.”
I groan. “Christ, Pops. That’s not what’s happening. She really is sick.”
“Mm-hmm.” I ignore his dubious tone and the fact that he thinks I’m over here having sex with his neighbor.
“Are you going to be okay at the house by yourself? You need anything?”
He chuckles into the phone. “I’ve been taking care of myself on the ranch for years, Wes. I can handle a night alone while you do a little bedroom rodeo.”
I bark out a shocked laugh. “What is wrong with you tonight, old man?”
“I just got back from a fun pitch night. I’m feelin’ feisty.”
“Well, you’re wrong about me and Sawyer. She just needed some help. Tripp and Allie were busy, and she doesn’t even have the energy to feed herself. Besides, someone’s gotta take care of the animals.”
He grunts, sounding pleased. “Good. She could use someone takin’ care of her. She’s always too damn stubborn to let anyone else help.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, recalling the fiery look in her eyes when I’d first come in to check on her. “I’ll be back at the ranch in the morning to help bring the last of that hay into the barn.”
“Take good care of Sawyer. We’ll see ya bright and early.”
I stand on the porch and ruminate on the assumptions that Pops made. If he sees the way I look at her, does that mean everyone else sees it too?
It was hard not to appreciate a woman like Sawyer Addams. She was like a wildfire, mesmerizing and destructive. But I was starting to remember that I used to enjoy living life on the edge, and I found myself being drawn closer to the flames, despite the chance of being burned.