Chapter 5
Kimmie
Consciousness returns in fragments. First, sensation—cool sheets against my feverish skin, something cold and damp against my forehead. Then sound—quiet breathing that isn’t my own. Finally, scent. I inhale to get a little more of it.
I peel my eyes open to find Tanner’s broad form occupying a chair beside the bed.
Even sitting, he’s massive, filling the leather wingback like it’s barely containing him.
The button down from earlier is gone, replaced by a worn t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way that’d be distracting if I weren’t feeling so awful.
His head is bent over his phone. The blue light casts shadows across the planes of his face, softening its harsh angles.
“Water?” My voice comes out as a croak.
He’s on his feet instantly. “Here.” His callused hand slides behind my neck to support my head as he holds a glass to my lips. The water is perfectly cool, and I drink greedily until he pulls it away. “Not too fast.”
Those rough fighter’s hands are impossibly gentle as he eases me back against the pillows. The contrast between his fierce appearance and tender movements makes something flutter in my chest. He picks up a digital thermometer from the nightstand and holds it up. “Mind if I check?”
I shake my head, and he slides the device into my ear.
When it beeps, his lips quirk up. “101. Better.” The back of his hand brushes against my forehead, then he palms one of my cheeks to confirm the reading.
The gesture is tender, almost intimate. His calluses catch slightly against my skin, and something warm unfurls in my stomach.
It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me with such care.
Then he smiles—a real smile, not the cocky grin from dinner—and his whole face transforms. The roughness softens, and I see past the fighter to something warmer, gentler. It makes me wonder how many people get to see this side of him.
“Here, take these. They’ll keep that fever down.
” He shakes two pills out of a bottle of over the counter fever reducer.
I swallow them with another gulp of water and try not to think about how strange it is to be accepting medication from someone who’s part of a hostile takeover against my restaurant.
“Get some more rest,” he says, and I want to ask why he’s being so nice, why any of them are being nice when they want to destroy everything. But exhaustion drags at me like an undertow before I can form the words.
When I surface again, my eyes focus on Leo sitting in a small spill of light from the bedside lamp. He’s in the wingback with a sketchbook balanced on his knee. His pencil moves in quick, sure strokes across the paper.
“Planning your next masterpiece?” I almost sound normal, though my throat still feels like I swallowed sand.
He startles, nearly dropping the pad. A faint flush colors his cheeks as he closes the book. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” I shift, then realize something I didn’t notice before. My bare legs are sliding against the sheets. “Where are my pants?”
“Dr. Hilliard thought you’d be more comfortable without the jeans.” If possible, his blush deepens. “The housekeeper helped her.”
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my neck as I realize my bra is gone, too. Just another mortification to add to the growing list. “I, um, need to use the bathroom.”
Leo moves to help me up. Before I can protest, he scoops me into his arms like I’m a featherweight.
Which I’m definitely not.
But he doesn’t even grunt with the effort. For someone so lean, he’s surprisingly strong.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly as he carries me to the ensuite bathroom.
“And I can bench press twice your weight.” His voice holds a hint of amusement. “Let me help.”
“Isn’t that more of a Tanner thing to say?”
He laughs outright this time. “I see you’re getting to know us.”
That’s not something I want to examine too closely. They’ll be easier to battle if they’re just a faceless pack of ruthless alphas. “I’ve got it from here,” I mumble, mortified by the whole situation when he sets me carefully on my feet.
“I’ll wait outside the door. Call if you need anything.”
The bathroom is huge, all marble and gold fixtures. I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince. My hair’s a disaster, my t-shirt—which had seen better days when I first put it on—now looks like a reject from the rag bin, and my face is flushed with fever. Fantastic.
By the time I finish and wash my hands, my legs are trembling like I’ve run a marathon. Leo carries me back to bed and deposits me gently against the pillows. He pulls the covers around me and arranges them to his satisfaction.
“Thank you,” I manage before exhaustion claims me again.
The next time I wake, the light filtering through gauzy curtains tells me it’s daytime. Friday.
Elliot sits in what I’m beginning to think of as the alpha chair, his green eyes studying me with quiet interest. He’s traded his dinner suit for casual clothes, but somehow still manages to look perfectly put together.
“I’m feeling better.” My voice is stronger now even though my arms feel like silly string when I try to push myself into a sitting position. “I should really get to the restaurant. Suze will need help—”
“I doubt that. Your restaurant’s been closed for a few hours now.”
“What? What time is it?”
“Just after five.”
“Friday?” I ask. “PM?” I’ve lost an entire day? Panic rises in my chest. “But who—how—”
“Your friend Suze has everything handled. She said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Stop being a control freak and get better.’”
A laugh bubbles up, then turns into a cough. Trust Suze to manage both the restaurant and a lecture. “That sounds like her.”
“Are you hungry? The kitchen can prepare something light.”
My stomach growls in response, reminding me the last thing I ate was a few bites of duck à l’orange. “Maybe a little.”
He picks up a phone from the nightstand and orders soup, his tone quietly authoritative. It’s the same voice he probably uses in his lab, expecting immediate results.
“Why are you all being so nice to me?” The question slips out before I can stop it. There’s a strange intimacy in being cared for by people who are my enemies.
“We’re not monsters, Kimmie.” His lips quirk up. “And we like you.”
“Not enough to leave my restaurant alone.” The words come out bitter, reminding us both of the reality behind this unusual interlude.
“The new building is Gabriel’s obsession, and he can be relentless when he’s obsessed.” Elliot’s expression turns serious. “But the rest of us won’t let him do anything to hurt you.”
I frown. “That’s an odd thing to say. I’m a stranger, and you’re pack bro—”
A knock at the door announces the arrival of a soup tray, cutting off my observation. Elliot helps me sit up. He arranges a linen napkin around my neck to make sure my t-shirt is completely covered. As though a few soup stains would make a difference.
I feel ridiculous, but the smell coming from the bowl distracts me. The soup is clear broth with tiny pasta and soft veggies, easy on my stomach but flavorful. It tastes like something my grandmother would have made When I was sick.
“Small sips,” he instructs, holding the spoon for me. I want to protest, but I don’t think my arms can handle the exertion.
I manage about half before fatigue pulls at me. Elliot sets the tray aside and helps me settle back against the pillows. The whole situation feels surreal—being tucked into bed by one of the men who wants to demolish my home.
“Rest,” he says softly. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”