Chapter 19 #2
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.
“I know.”
“Jenna was in your office.”
His expression stills.
I didn’t mean to say that. The flu has apparently murdered my filter.
“She stopped by,” he says.
“Wives do that.”
“Laurel.”
“I’m not mad.”
His brows lift.
“I’m jealous,” I correct. “Which is worse, because I have no right to be.”
He sets his jaw but says nothing. I laugh once, then immediately cough because my body hates me.
Sin crosses the room fast, one hand going to my back. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying.”
He guides me to the couch with an infuriating amount of gentleness, then helps me out of my coat. His hand brushes my forehead and his face darkens.
“You’re burning up.”
“I’m also emotionally unavailable right now, so please leave a message.”
He kneels in front of me and opens the pharmacy bag.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Medicine. Electrolytes. A thermometer. Tissues. Crackers. Soup.”
“You panic-shopped.”
“I shopped efficiently.”
“You bought three kinds of cough drops.”
“You’re welcome.”
My throat tightens. Dangerously. Because this isn’t sex, or heat, or the thrill of him locking a door. This is Sin kneeling on my living room floor in a suit that probably costs more than my rent, reading dosage instructions on cold medicine.
This is worse. So much worse.
He takes my temperature and I let him because I am weak, feverish, and apparently a sucker for competent men with pharmacy bags. When the thermometer beeps, he looks at it and frowns.
“That bad?”
He nods. “You’re staying home tomorrow.”
“I have work.”
“You have a fever.”
“The launch—”
“Will survive without you for one day.”
“I’m very important.”
“I know.”
The way he says it makes me look at him. His eyes are on mine. It’s too much.
He looks away first, reaching for the medicine.
“You need to take this.”
I do. Then he brings me water. Then soup. Then forces me to eat three crackers like he is personally negotiating with my immune system. At some point, I stop fighting him. Partly because he’s right.
Mostly because being cared for feels good in a way that makes me want to cry.
My parents were never good at this part. They loved me, I think. But sickness was inconvenient. Really, needing anything from them was inconvenient. I learned early to make myself small, quiet, easy to overlook.
Sin doesn’t let me disappear. He tucks a blanket around me. He puts a cool cloth on my forehead. He takes my phone when I try to answer work emails and sets it on the coffee table out of reach.
He sits beside me on the couch, close but not touching. I hate that too.
“Did you come here because of Jenna?” I ask.
He looks at me. “No.”
“Because I ran away?”
“You didn’t run.”
“I scurried.”
His mouth twitches. Then the humor fades. “I came because Opal told me you nearly passed out in your office. She was worried.”
“Were you?”
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
The word lands too hard.
I look down at the blanket. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep knowing things and doing the opposite.”
I laugh softly. Then my eyes burn. Oh no. No fever crying.
He sees it anyway.
“Laurel.”
“Don’t be nice to me right now.”
His expression shifts. “Why?”
“Because I can handle you wanting me.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I don’t know what to do with …” I gesture weakly at the soup, the medicine, the blanket, the stupid cool cloth now warming on my forehead. “This.”
“I want more than your body,” he says quietly.
My chest aches.
“Sin.”
“I know I don’t have the right to say that.”
“No,” I whisper. “You don’t.”
“But it’s true.”
I close my eyes. I wish he had lied. Lies are easier. Lies are familiar. Truths like that sit under the skin and grow roots.
He reaches for my hand, then stops like he is giving me the chance to refuse. I don’t. His fingers slide through mine.
“I saw the way you looked when Jenna was in my office,” he says.
My face heats for an entirely different reason.
“Great. I was hoping my dignity survived at least one business quarter.”
“I hated it.”
“Me being jealous?”
“You hurting,” he corrects.
I look at him then. His thumb moves slowly over my knuckles.
“I hate that I’m the reason,” he says.
I exhale shakily. “I got an offer today.”
His hand stills. “What kind of offer?”
“Job.”
His face goes blank in that way that means something has hit him too fast to react honestly.
“From who?”
“Sex Activity Pro.”
His eyes sharpen. “They contacted you directly?”
“Yes.”
“For what role?”
“VP of Product Innovation.”
He releases my hand and sits back slightly. The CEO is back at this moment, the man who knows exactly what that means.
“That’s a serious offer,” he says. “You should consider it.”
I laugh once. “That sounded physically painful for you.”
“It was.” He drags a hand over his jaw. “You deserve opportunities like that.”
“I know.”
“You deserve to be seen for your work.”
“I know that too.”
His gaze returns to mine.
“But?” he asks.
But you. But this. But the idea of leaving makes me feel sick in a way the flu can’t take credit for.
I tuck the blanket tighter around myself. “But my life is complicated right now.”
Pain crosses his face because he knows he is the complication.
“I don’t want to be the reason you stay,” he says.
I stare at him.
“That is such a noble thing to say from a man who is currently in my apartment taking care of me while his wife probably thinks he’s working late.”
“You’re right,” he says.
He stands and walks to the kitchen, busying himself with the soup container and a spoon he has absolutely already cleaned once. His shoulders are tense. For a second, I think I’ve pushed too hard. Maybe I should. Maybe this is how we stop.
Then he comes back with the soup and sits beside me again.
“Eat,” he says.
“You’re bossy when wounded.”
“I’m bossy always.”
“True.”
I take the soup because arguing feels exhausting.
He watches until I manage two bites, then relaxes slightly.
After a while, the medicine makes me drowsy.
I sink sideways into the couch, and Sin adjusts the blanket without saying anything.
He moves like he’s trying not to disturb me, but I catch his wrist.
“Don’t go yet,” I whisper. “Please.”
His eyes soften.
“I won’t.”
“You should.”
“I know.”
There it is again. But this time, it doesn’t irritate me. It comforts me.
He sits beside me and lets me rest my head on his thigh. His hand moves into my hair, slow and careful, stroking until my eyes close.
His voice is low as he says, “You scared me today.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is too tight.
He keeps stroking my hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “You were incredible in that room.”
A tear slips out despite my very firm objection to fever crying. His thumb catches it before it reaches my cheek. I open my eyes. He looks down at me, and whatever I see there makes my heart ache in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.
“I’m contagious,” I whisper.
His mouth curves faintly. “I’ll survive.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
I stare at him through fever-heavy eyes.
“You keep taking care of me like this, and I’m going to get the wrong idea.”
His face stills. “What idea?”
That I matter. That you might choose me. That I am not the only one falling.
I don’t say any of that. I’m not that feverish.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
He leans down and presses his mouth to my forehead. A careful, tender kiss that breaks me more thoroughly than anything he has ever done to my body.
“You matter to me, Laurel,” he says against my skin.
The words slip into my chest and stay there.
I close my eyes.
Because I am too sick to fight.
Too tired to lie.
Too in love with him to pretend this is only sin anymore.
He stays until I fall asleep. And sometime in the night, when fever dreams pull me under and I wake shivering, he’s still there. On my couch. Sleeves rolled. One hand wrapped around mine. Watching over me like he has every right. Like he belongs.
Like loving me is not another thing that will ruin us both.