Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
While Zev is quite capable of moving on his own, I open the passenger door for him, then I reach around that giant of a man and buckle him into my car.
“Rosawee, I’m oka. I don’t need a doc-dor. Jus some Benadil.”
I shut his door and run around to the driver’s side. His speech is getting worse. I start up the engine and peer over at him. His lips and eyes are swelling like rising bread dough. “Ummm… you might need a doctor.”
I run one red light and speed all the way to the urgent care center, but—
“Closed? It’s closed.” My breaths turn haggard as I look at a rapidly plumping Zev. “How’s your breathing? Are you breathing?”
“I breeding,” he says just as my phone rings.
I peer down at the device clinging to my magnetized dash holder. “Oh!” I shout. “It’s Fran! She’s a wedding planner! She’ll know what to do.”
“Uh—”
“Hello!”
“Hey,” she says. “What are your thoughts on carnations?”
“FRAN! Zev is having an allergic reaction, and urgent care is closed.”
“Zev?” she says, her tone cautious.
“Uh—hi, I am here. And indeed swelling like a hot air balloon.”
“Whoa,” Fran says. “Does he need the emergency room?”
But before I can answer, Zev sets a hand on my shoulder. “Jus meds.”
“Benadryl,” Fran says. “Liquid. Callum had a reaction to something last summer when we went camping and his mom told me to give him liquid Benadryl. It’ll say it’s for kids, but give him a double dose. It’ll work faster.”
“Liquid. Got it. Thanks, Fran.” I am a smart, capable woman who was searching her cupboards for Benadryl not all that long ago—why did I abandon the plan so quick? Oh right, because Zev suddenly resembles a very lumpy Mr. Potato Head who can’t pronounce all of his letters.
I back out of the useless urgent care parking lot and head to Walgreens, just two blocks away.
One look at Zev and my stomach rolls. “You better come in with me.” I snatch a hold of his hand and speed walk him into the store and through the aisles.
“Benadryl?” I call to the one clerk we pass.
“Aisle nine,” she says, eyes on Zev. I get it. He’s not exactly his handsome self at the moment.
I find little pink Benadryl pills and run my finger down the shelf to the liquid children’s edition.
I rip that box open in the middle of aisle nine.
My fingers fumble as I remove the little plastic cup with measurements on the side.
In my urgency, it slips from my grasp and tumbles beneath the stocked shelves.
I shove the open bottle into Zev’s hands. “Just start drinking,” I say, looking for the dosing directions. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Zev surprises me by obeying my every command.
I read the directions, but there’s no way for me to tell when he’s chugged twenty milliliters of meds.
Besides, Zev is much larger than a ten-year-old.
He’s larger than most twenty-year-olds. He may need a triple dose.
So, I don’t tell him to stop until the bottle is half empty.
When his face doesn’t magically return to normal, I scoop five more boxes of liquid Benadryl into my arms. “Take another swig,” I command him before walking to the checkout.
The teenage girl behind the counter rings me up, all while staring at Zev. When she’s finished, she doesn’t give me a total, but her brows pinch together. “Are you—are you Zevulun Hayes?”
Zev takes another swig from his Benadryl bottle.
I glance from the girl to Zev before handing her my card.
No one answers her question. Zev sips from his bottle and I pay her, unsure what’s happening. Before we’ve left the building, Zev has officially finished off his first bottle of Benadryl.
“I told you to wait for my directions,” I say, praying I don’t overdose him.
He blinks long, slow blinks. The Benadryl may not have slimmed down his lips, but he’s getting sleepy, that’s for sure. “You dib,” he says, eyes closed, empty Benadryl bottle to his lips. “Sorry.”
I walk him to the car, open his door, and buckle that mountain of a man into his seat again—this time, he does need my help. The man is out of it. His puffed eyes are closed and his head rests against the back of the seat.
Holy moly, I have poisoned the sweetest man I’ve ever met. Once behind the wheel, I pull up my phone and write the strangest question I’ve ever written into my search bar.
If one is having an allergic reaction and one drinks an entire bottle of children’s Benadryl, what should one then do?
The internet tells me to let him sleep it off and also to never ever, ever allow a person to drink an entire bottle of Benadryl. Thanks, Google. That would have been helpful five minutes ago.
“Zev,” I say, making sure he’s still lucid. “Do you know the girl from Walgreens? The one who said your name?”
He breathes out a sleepy sigh and shrugs his shoulders. A raspberry bubbles from his swollen lips.
“So weird,” I mumble to myself, then start up the car. He needs to rest. The drive is quiet, but I’m still curious. “How would she know you, Zev?”
“Work,” he says, but his eyes never open.
“What do you do again?” I say it like I knew once and forgot, though I’ve never asked and he’s never shared.
“I play games.”
My brow cinches. Is my six-foot-five, avid reader, beautifully ripped kissing friend a professional video gamer?
That doesn’t seem to fit Zev and what I know.
I sigh. He is currently drugged on anchovies and Benadryl.
I could probably ask him anything in this minute and he’d answer.
But that feels a little intrusive. I wouldn’t want him doing that to me.
And there are plenty of things I haven’t shared with him yet.
I take Zev back to my house. He’s currently high as a kite, and I’m not sure he could get us into his place.
He drapes his arm over my shoulder and hums while I walk him inside.
I’m literally supporting his arm, but I’m pretty sure it weighs a hundred pounds.
The bag of Benadryl bottles dangles from my crooked elbow.
“Goodness,” Grammy says the second she sees us.
“Zev’s going to crash on the couch, Gram.”
“For goodness’ sake, let the man crash in your bed.”
“Grammy,” I yip.
“Well, he’s never going to fit on that couch, Rosalie.” She flings her arm to the loveseat in our living room.
I peer over at Grammy’s floral two-seater sofa. She’s got a point. I huff out a sigh. “This way, Zev,” I say, leading him back to my room. He’s still humming. “I’ll take the couch, okay?”
I would have at least picked up the clothes on my floor had I known I was having a sleepover guest. I kick a shirt out of the way, still helping a very slow, heavy, sloshy walking Zev over to my double bed.
“Okay, ready? We’re lying down now.” I move in front of him and hold him at the sides.
Zev plops into a seat on my mattress. It jars, knocking my headboard into the wall.
“Ready?” I say, pushing back on his shoulders until his head hits the pillow.
He lets out a long, low breath, his eyes peacefully shut.
“Now the legs,” I puff, picking Zev’s legs up by the ankles.
“Holy, you’re heavy,” I grunt. There are muscles in Zev’s legs that I never knew existed.
Wowza. Unlacing his shoes, I pull them from his feet—it’s a workout. “Are you a personal trainer, Zev?”
He hums out a laugh, sounding just like an eight-year-old.
He rolls onto his back, and with the movement, his pant leg hikes up.
There’s a pink, puckering line above his ankle.
His broken leg. I crouch next to him and carefully move his pants up a couple more inches, my fingers brushing over his skin.
I can’t see the end of the scar, but the beginning is brutal.
He wiggles, my soft touch tickling him, I think. Another jerk and I am almost kicked in the face. Backing up, I lose sight of his scar. I pull back my hair and swallow, feeling a little caught. “Do you need something?”
That’s when a very sleepy, very tipsy Zev pulls his shirt over his head.
“Oh Addison Adams,” I mutter. My favorite romance author has never written anything as glorious as Zevulun Hayes shirtless.
“Rosalie,” he mutters, his eyes still shut.
I ball my hand into a fist and walk along the edge of the mattress. Zev lies on his side, his arm draping over the edge of the bed. I unfist my fingers and watch his reaction as they brush over the bare skin of his arm.
The swelling in his face looks a little better—or maybe it’s my imagination.
“Zev?” When he doesn’t answer, I reach for his dangling hand, wiggling his fingers in mine. “You said my name. Do you need something?”
He adjusts again, this time flopping onto his back, arms out wide.
Zev’s body is like a work of art—but it’s the actual work of art on his chest that catches my attention. Just above his heart, only two inches tall, is a tattooed rose. It’s a swirl of reds and pinks, so detailed and beautiful.
I lean over him, looking a little closer. And because I’m still the strongest magnet in the universe and Zev’s my preferred metal, I reach out and trace my fingers along the ink.
His clumsy hand sweeps up, taking me by the fingers. “Rose,” he says.
I clear my throat, remembering why we’re here. He’s ill and in need of help—not gawking. “Did you need something?”
“You,” he says, his words sleepy, but more clear than before. “Always you.” Then he yanks on the hand he holds. And I topple right on top of the man. He grunts when my chest knocks into his. “Better.” He hums again.
“Zev,” I whisper, wiggling until I’m resting in the crook of his right arm, right against his side, my hand over the rose on his chest. He wraps his arm around me, keeping me close.
“Am I too gruesome to kiss?” he mutters.
I press my face into his side and breathe in his soap and cologne. Yum. Zevulun Hayes is dangerous when he’s high on Benadryl. If I kiss him like this, who knows what might happen. “Yes, you are much too gruesome.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh, and I stretch my neck and peck his jaw. His arm about me tightens, somehow hugging me closer.
“This is so fast,” I say, but I don’t attempt to move. That hard-as-a-rock man is quite the comfortable cushion.
“No,” he says.
“Except that it is.”
His lips and nose nuzzle at the top of my head and into my hair. “Not fast enough.”
I pinch his side, but he doesn’t even flinch. “You don’t even know what you’re saying. You’re stoned on Benadryl.”
His breaths are even and steady, and for a second I think he’s asleep.
“I love you, Rosalie.” His words might be slow and slurred, but I don’t miss a single beat.
Every muscle in my body tenses. “You don’t,” I whisper.
“Except I do.”
“Shh.” I tilt my head and peek up at him. “Sleep off a little of that drug. Okay?” I pat his chest, not unlike a soothing parent would a sick child. “Before you say something you regret.”
A minute later, a soft humming snore sounds from his throat. He’s finally asleep. But I am wide awake, nestled in the crook of his arm. My hand on that rose tattoo beats with the thump of his heart.
I love you, Rosalie.
He said it so clearly. So sweetly. So earnestly.
He also said it while drugged.
Still, it took Robert a year to tell me he loved me. And Zev only a month. And sure, he’s a little out of his mind, and under normal conditions, I doubt he would have said it. But he did. And I can’t unhear it.