Chapter 25
Jade
I stand outside Carlos’s office door for a full minute before I knock on Monday afternoon.
I haven’t seen him since the storm. I’ve thought about that moment a lot, though; the feel of Carlos’s sleeve against mine, the feeling like we were in a bubble under the umbrella, our breath mixing and steaming in the wild weather.
We’re not quite friends. I don’t know if we ever will be.
But right now, I have a legitimate work question about our presentation in Marseille in two days, and I can’t avoid him forever.
I knock.
“Pase,” his voice calls, muffled through the door.
I push it open. Carlos is at his desk, staring at his computer screen with an intensity that seems forced. He doesn’t look up when I enter, and his posture is stiffer than usual.
Unhappy to see me? Fine, be an asshole.
“Hi,” I say, marching up to his desk. “Do you have a minute? I had a question about the Marseille venue.”
“Of course.” His voice is clipped. Professional. He still doesn’t look at me, just clicks something on his screen. “What do you need?”
I step closer, pulling up the venue details on my phone. “The email says the presentation room is on the third floor, but the floor plan they sent shows the event spaces on the second and fourth. I just wanted to confirm before—”
I stop mid-sentence.
Now that I’m closer, I can see him properly. His face is pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the office air conditioning. His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for his mouse.
“Carlos?”
“It’s the third floor,” he says, his voice tight. “The email is correct. The floor plan is outdated.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. He looks terrible.
“You don’t look fine.”
Finally, he looks up at me, and I see it in his eyes—he’s miserable. Trying to power through but clearly unwell.
“It’s just a headache,” he says. “I’ll be fine for Marseille.”
“That’s in two days.”
“I know when the presentation is, Jade.”
The snap in his voice tells me he’s feeling worse than he’s letting on. I step around his desk—breaking our unspoken rule about personal space. I lean forward, reaching out. “May I?”
Carlos pauses, but then nods and I put my hand on his forehead, right under the soft fall of salt-and-pepper hair that swoops down. Blazing hot. Carlos closes his eyes and leans ever-so-slightly into me.
He’s burning up.
Then I remember to check with the back of my hand. Whoops. My fingers are always cold.
Still hot.
But is it so hot he needs an emergency room?
This is why we have fancy modern technology, like this digital thermometer, Jade.
“You have a fever.”
“It’s just—”
“Carlos.” I pull my hand back. “You’re sick. You need to go home.”
“I have work to finish.” His shoulders shudder as the words come out.
“Which you can’t do if you’re sitting here with the chills.” I glance at his computer screen—he’s been staring at the same email for who knows how long. “Come on. I’ll help you get home.”
“I don’t need—”
He stands up too quickly and has to grab the edge of his desk. His knees buckle slightly.
“Okay, that’s it.” I move to his side, sliding my arm around his waist to steady him. “We’re going. Now.”
He’s too weak to argue properly, which tells me exactly how bad he feels. He lets me help him into his jacket. I grab his bag and guide him toward the door.
We must make quite a sight—me, a foot shorter, propping up this tall man in black as we shuffle down the hallway. A few colleagues glance over, concerned, but I just smile tightly and keep moving.
“The Metro,” he mumbles.
“We’re taking a taxi. You’re in no condition to be around people.”
He doesn’t argue.
The taxi ride to Chueca is quiet. Carlos leans his head against the window, eyes closed. I give the driver his address—which I still have in my phone from when I returned his charger weeks ago, back when things were different between us.
Back when we were still becoming friends.
I shove that thought away.
When we arrive at his building, I help him up the two flights of stairs. He’s breathing hard by the time we reach his door, fumbling with his keys. I take them from him and unlock it.
The moment the door opens, I hear the scrambling of claws on hardwood.
Izan greets us at the door, hopping and spinning in circles. But he stops mid-spin when he sees Carlos leaning heavily against the doorframe. The dog’s tail lowers, his head tilts in concern.
“Hey, buddy,” Carlos says weakly. “I’m okay.”
Izan whines, pressing his shoulder against Carlos’s leg.
“Come on,” I say, guiding Carlos inside. “Couch. Now.”
I help him to the couch where he slumps over, completely spent from the stairs. Izan follows, sitting at Carlos’s feet, watching him with worried dog eyes.
“Does he need to go out?”
Carlos shrugs. “The dog walker was here not too long ago.”
“I’m going to get you some water and check what you have for medicine,” I say, already heading toward his kitchen.
Carlos just nods, eyes closed.
His kitchen is neat, organized. I find glasses easily, fill one with water from the tap. In his bathroom medicine cabinet, I find basic pain relievers and fever reducers, but the Paracetamol is expired by two years.
When I return, Carlos hasn’t moved. Izan has his head resting on Carlos’s knee.
“When did you last eat?” I hand him the glass and he guzzles the water. Carlos hands it back, then closes his eyes and leans his head against the couch.
“This morning. A magdalena.” A muffin, he means.
“I know you have a fever. Chills?”
Carlos makes a grunt of affirmation.
“Have you thrown up?”
Another grunt. This one sounds like a no.
“But you are nauseous.”
It’s not a question, but Carlos says yes anyway.
“I’m going to run out for medicine. And you should definitely drink more water.” I refill his glass from the kitchen sink and bring it back. “Let me see what you have in your fridge.”
The answer is: not much. Some eggs, cheese, condiments. We’ve both been traveling too much to keep fresh food stocked.
“Okay, I’ll be back with food. What sounds good?”
He grunts. Ambiguously.
“Come on. You need to eat something. Soup? Sandwich?”
“Sandwich.” Carlos’s head is tilted back against the couch cushion, his gaze watchful. The afternoon light streams through his windows, and Izan hasn’t moved from his protective position.
I remember a sandwich shop not far from here and look up the closest pharmacy. “Stay right there, I’ll be back.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“We agreed. Professional—”
“Taking care of a sick colleague is professional,” I cut him off. “Anyone would do this.”
It’s a lie and we both know it. But he doesn’t call me on it.
It takes me twenty minutes to pick up medicine and sandwiches.
One of the things I love about Spain—all of Europe, really—is the pharmacies.
I pop in, and the pharmacists speak beautiful English (I don’t even try testing my Spanish on this subject; I would really prefer not to get dosages mixed up or mistranslate analgesic) and I soon have exactly what I need to take care of Carlos.
The door is open when I get back, Izan standing in the doorway, his tail wagging when he sees me.
I dump my purchases and look for Carlos, Izan happily following me around. I find him sitting on the edge of his bed, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair damp.
“You showered?” I’m honestly shocked that he had the energy.
“Sweaty,” he explains. His voice comes out ragged, and his eyes are barely staying open.
I dig the thermometer out of the bag. It’s one of those digital, instant-read ones, and I read the instructions carefully before swiping it on his forehead.
Then I have to google Celsius to Fahrenheit, because I don’t think the conversion in my head is accurate enough—it is a small difference between the normal body temperature of 98.
6 and over 100 and I would hate to miss an important symptom because of a conversion error.
Ninety-nine-point-three. Not bad enough to be worried.
I reach around him and pull all the pillows on his bed to the headboard, fluffing them up.
Then I place a hand on Carlos’s bare chest—searing heat, which is just his illness, of course—and guide him to lie back.
I pull the sandwich out and place it in Carlos’s lap.
He looks at the wrapped bundle, and I think he might refuse it, but then he peels the paper back and sits up straighter.
It doesn’t feel right perching on his bed, so I look around the room.
Izan has plopped down next to a dog bed by the bathroom door.
There’s a small desk in the corner with a closed laptop and an office chair.
I drag it over and set the soup container, still covered, on my lap.
“This means I’ll be keeping closer tabs on you and if I don’t think you’re eating or drinking enough again .
. .” I mime smacking my hand with the riding crop.
That gets me a glint of a smile from Carlos before he takes a big bite of his sandwich. I pop open the lid of my soup, steam rising from the to-go container, and carefully spoon some broth up and blow on it.
“Have you, ah, used the riding crop on someone? Or do you prefer it the other way?” Carlos is focused on his sandwich, and I eye him. Now he wants to talk about kink? I suppose I did bring the crop up. But it’s also possible Carlos is delirious.
“I prefer it the other way around. But no, I haven’t used it with anyone yet. Just on myself.”
The sandwich pauses on the way up to his mouth. It takes a moment for his brain to restart so he can take another bite.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” I say sweetly, and slurp the soup off my spoon.
“Of course. I just . . . well. Curiosity got the best of me, I guess. Sorry.” He flashes me a rueful smile.
He’s eating his sandwich, but slowly, like it might get better as time goes on.
That’s not how baguettes work, and who knows how long that one was sitting in the display case.
But I guess it’s a good sign that he’s eating and talking.
“I don’t want to be inappropriate,” I add.
“Well,” Carlos says. “We’re in a bedroom alone—”
“Scandalous.”
“—and you’re taking care of me when I’m feeling poorly. And I am naked.”
I gasp, and it’s only halfway faked. “You’re naked?” I cover my eyes and tease him through my laughter. “Why would you tell me that? I can’t even look at you now.”
Carlos chuckles. “Sorry. I—”
“Stop apologizing so much. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I could have tried harder to bend down and put pants on,” he admits. “But I also didn’t want to throw up. Or fall over.”
“Reasonable. How’s that sandwich treating you?” He’s halfway done with it.
“I do feel better. Thank you.”
I put my hand down and grin at him. “You’re welcome.”
For a moment—just a moment—it feels like it did before. Before the kiss, before the fight, before the elevator. When we were becoming something that felt like friendship. Like more.
Then Izan shifts, reminding us both where we are. What we’re doing.
I finish my soup in silence. Carlos manages to eat a few more bites of his sandwich, which I count as a victory.
“You should rest,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes. “The medicine will kick in soon and you’ll probably sleep. I’ll take Izan for a walk before I go.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For . . . all of this.”
“Anyone would do it.”
“Jade—”
“You should nap.” I stand up. “Text me if you need anything. Or if you’re not feeling better tomorrow.”
I’m at the door when he speaks.
“Professional colleagues don’t usually bring each other home and take care of each other.”
I turn back. He’s still sitting up, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“No,” I agree. “They don’t.”
We stare at each other across his bedroom, all the things we’re not saying filling the space between us.
“Get some rest, Carlos.”
I close the door before he can say anything else. Before I can do something stupid like stay. Like sleeping on his couch and letting the walls come down.
We agreed. Professional only.
Even if it’s killing both of us.