Chapter 34 #2
“If you’ll sit back on the stool and lean over, we can wrap your hair.”
She wanted to argue that she could bend over, but she wasn’t terribly steady, so she sat and leaned over.
He walked her to the bedroom chair with his arm around her waist. It was already pulled out from the wall so he could stand behind it, and he blow-dried her hair, working it in sections, drying and brushing like a pro. The air was warm, and the motions almost meditative.
“How would you like it?” he asked when he turned the blow-dryer off. “Braid? Ponytail? Down?”
Emmy realized he’d happily do whatever she told him to, even if it was an order — and that he’d probably be happier with an order.
The thought made something warm unfurl in her chest, but she wasn’t in a place for orders just yet, so she told him, “Oh, I’d love a braid, so it’ll stay tidy longer.
A French braid if you know how, but if you don’t it’s fine, a regular braid will be great. ”
“French braid it is, then.”
His hands were already moving, sectioning her hair, fingers weaving the strands together with the same patient precision he’d shown washing it.
“Okay,” he said once he’d secured the second braid. “Time to get some clothes on you and then get you back into bed.” Rhea had sent several items of clothing down, and he walked to the stack. “Anything in particular you want to wear?”
“Just a t-shirt and joggers, please. I don’t care which.”
She put the shirt on, then took the towel off and stepped into her underwear and the joggers while she was sitting, pulling them up as she stood.
He walked her to the bed, and she told him, “I feel so much better. Like a new person. Thank you so much for helping me.”
His smile was soft, genuine. “Anytime. Literally anytime.”
The shower had exhausted her, and she fell asleep before she’d watched another five minutes of Buffy.
When she woke, Spence was right beside her, working on a laptop, which he set aside as soon as she began moving.
“Hungry? I’m supposed to let the cafeteria know when you wake, so they can send dinner down. Zander too, since he wants to join us.”
“I am, yes, but Zander can’t eat with us.”
“Still wants to sit with us,” he said, busily texting on his phone.
Zander arrived with dinner about ten minutes later, and told her, “I come bearing baked chicken with gentle but savory herbs, shredded carrots, and white rice, all cooked in chicken broth.”
Her stomach actually growled, and she smiled happily. It was so much better to be hungry, rather than the smell of food making her want to puke.
Spence had set the small table in the sitting room — two place settings, and an empty wineglass in front of the third.
“I usually drink red wine,” Zander said, “but in honor of your meal, which calls for white, I believe I’ll go for a sauvignon blanc.”
Spence helped Emmy to her chair even though she was fine to walk right after resting, but she didn’t argue. She watched him plate their food, and then told him, “This smells amazing,” while she forked her first careful bite.
The chicken was tender, perfectly seasoned, and her stomach accepted it without complaint.
“The recipe comes from the nurse,” Spence said. “Specially designed for recovering sensitive stomachs.”
It was delicious, and only barely tasted like what Emmy imagined hospital food was like, but… “Is everyone having to eat this?”
“I have a little extra pull with the cafeteria,” Zander said. “They’re making bland food for those recovering, while everyone else is eating lasagna, which Spence has already gorged on.”
Spence snorted. “You mean you ordered the head cook to follow the nurse’s recipe to the letter without adding anything the nurse didn’t personally approve of.”
Zander smiled. “Guilty as charged.”
Emmy laughed, and caught Zander watching her with satisfaction, like he was pleased to see her eating and laughing.
When Emmy slowed after eating barely a third of her plate, Spence immediately noticed.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Just full. I think my stomach shrunk.” Emmy set her fork down and took a small sip of her water. “But that was really good.”
“You did well,” Zander said, and the approval in his tone made Emmy smile.
After dinner, they moved to the couch — Emmy in the middle, with Spence to her right and Zander to her left.
They were in season two of Buffy, and Emmy settled back against the cushions with a contented sigh.
Spence’s hand found her knee, a casual touch, but it felt like … more. Zander’s arm stretched across the back of the couch behind her shoulders, not quite touching but close enough she could feel the coolness radiating from him.
On screen, Spike was brooding in some cemetery, and Emmy smiled. “He’s such a wonderful take on sexy evil.”
“He’s … entertaining,” Zander allowed.
“He’s hot,” Spence added, grinning when Zander shot him a look.
Sometime in the next episode, Emmy’s eyes grew heavy, the combination of food, warmth, and safety pulling her toward sleep. She found herself leaning into Spence’s shoulder, then adjusting so her head rested more comfortably against him.
“Tired?” Spence asked.
“A little.” Emmy’s eyes were already closing. “But I don’t want to move.”
“Then don’t.” Zander’s hand settled on her shoulder, cool fingers gentle. “Sleep here if you want. We’ll move you to bed later.”
Emmy wanted to protest, to say she could walk the fifteen feet to the bedroom herself, but Spence was warm and solid beneath her, and Zander’s touch was soothing.
So she let herself drift, Buffy’s dialogue fading to background noise, aware only of the two men bracketing her, the steady rhythm of Spence’s breathing, the occasional brush of Zander’s thumb against her shoulder.
This was what she’d wanted without knowing how to name it. Not just desire, not just attraction, but the feeling of fitting between them like a puzzle piece finally finding its place.
When she woke later, she was in bed, covers tucked around her, and Spence was sliding in behind her. He wrapped an arm around her, tucking her into his front.
She opened her eyes and saw Zander standing near the door, watching with an expression Emmy couldn’t quite read.
“Stay,” she murmured, still half-asleep.
Zander’s mouth curved. “I have work to do, little dragon, but Spence will stay with you. You’re not alone.”
Emmy wanted to argue, wanted to ask him to stay anyway, but sleep pulled at her again. Spence’s arm was heavy over her, his warmth at her back, and she let herself sink into it.
The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was Zander’s voice, low and fond: “Sleep well. Both of you.”
And as if her body was obeying him, Emmy slept through the night without fever dreams or pain, safe in the knowledge that nothing could hurt her in this suite.