Chapter 29
Tilly: I did a thing.
Chloe: What’s his name?
Tilly: I’ll give you a clue, rhymes with space talker.
Chloe: I’m too hungover for this, just tell me.
Tilly: Tech guru, filthy rich, dark hair. Massive penis.
Chloe: Chase Walker???
Tilly: Affirmative.
Chloe: Aren’t he and Logan best friends?
Tilly: Logan was a one-time thing. Are you slut shaming me?
Chloe: Nope. Might high-five you though.
CHLOE
The first thing I notice when my mind drifts into consciousness is that my mouth tastes like a garbage can.
The second is that I’m sweating. Gasping in a breath, I fling back the covers and find out exactly why.
Zeke’s brawny arm is thrown over my waist, half of his body weight pressing down on me so that I’m trapped against the mattress.
Cool air hits my skin, but it’s not enough to negate the heat of his large body cocooning mine from behind.
“Zeke,” I rasp, wincing as my throat scratches. He grunts behind me but doesn’t move. “Hey!” I slap his arm. “You’re so fucking hot.”
A dull pounding erupts between my temples, and I groan. He sucks in a deep breath and rolls slowly off me with a low, sleep filled noise of disgruntlement. “Thank you.” His rough morning voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Then I realize what he said. “I meant temperature-wise, asshole,” I scoff, closing my eyes and willing away the clammy heat clinging to my skin.
So much for no bed sharing. I hadn’t protested when he pulled me into it after reverently washing every inch of my body in the shower, too tired and emotionally drained to think.
I roll over, grumbling and snapping my eyes shut as the morning light punches right through to the back of my skull.
Yeesh, I didn’t drink that much. “Why is it so hot in here?”
A light shuffling of sheets reaches my ears and I crack one bleary eye open to see him propped on an elbow, his bare, tanned, tattooed chest flexing as he looks at me.
“It’s not.” Dark lashes fan over his sharp cheekbones when he narrows his eyes at me.
A large, cool hand reaches over to lay across my forehead, and I moan. “You’re burning up, you’re sick.”
My eyes snap open. “I am not sick, I’m hungover.”
He offers me a wry smile that tugs up one corner of his lips. “That too, but you’re definitely running a fever.”
“Chloe Devlin doesn’t get sick.” I sniff and then promptly cough as it scratches my throat. Fuck.
“Yeah right.” He snorts out a laugh, pushing himself up and swinging long legs over the side of the bed so I get a hit of his broad, defined back. “I’ll get you some water and Tylenol.”
My head pops off the pillow and my lips fall open as six feet and five inches of glorious, toned naked male stands and walks across to the closet.
“It’s rude to stare, Chloe,” he throws over his shoulder as he rounds the corner.
“It’s rude to have an ass like that,” I grumble quietly, but not quietly enough apparently, as his silky chuckle reaches me from the other room.
When he reappears, he’s wearing a fresh pair of black sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt.
My brows knit together at how good he looks when I probably look like a hungover bridge troll.
I’m half tempted to demand he answer a riddle so that he can be granted safe passage. “Why are you scowling at me?”
My foggy brain can’t come up with anything smart to say, so I just settle on “No reason.”
He quirks one brow as he reaches the doorway. “I’m going to get patient zero out of bed and then I’ll be back up with hangover supplies.”
“Thanks.” I sigh, flopping my head back onto the pillow and closing my eyes.
A second of silence passes. “What the hell did you do out here?”
Oh shit. The console table. Cracking my eyes open again, I see him standing just outside the doorway, looking down the hall with an amused look on his face. “Sorry about that, hope you weren’t too attached to it.” I roll my lips sheepishly as he glances back my way.
I’d knocked the table over trying to fumble my way to his room in the dark. It took me three attempts at standing it back up to realize one of the spindly decorative legs had snapped off. Drunk me decided that it was a tomorrow problem and had left it splayed where it was on the floor.
He rolls his eyes and lets out a laugh before disappearing out of sight.
Rolling onto my back, I blink up at the ceiling, tentatively testing the aches in my muscles that accompany the now familiar bruised ache between my legs.
It's always this way after he’s got his hands on me, and I love it.
It’s surprisingly cozy in Zeke’s room. The vibrant splash of red along the back wall offsets the clinical cloy of cool stone accents and grey modern decor.
The bed is large enough for me to lie sideways and still not be able to reach the ends, surely custom built.
A book lies on the bedside table and curiosity gets the better of me.
The Catcher in the Rye.
Shaking my head, I place the book back where it was. Classical music, red wine, and English literature—this man grew up around wealth.
Mi amor. The memory of softly spoken words floods back to me.
My love. I don’t speak Spanish, but even I know that one.
They cast an uneasy heaviness in my belly.
Even in my drunken, stripped-back state, they had stunned me into silence.
There is no doubt in my mind that Zeke feels nothing for me, other than perhaps some semblance of friendship after the weeks we have spent thrust into each other's proximity. He’s the president of the bachelor's club for casual sex.
But still, the sound of those words on his lips was intoxicating.
Huffing, I roll onto the pillow and bury my face in it, letting out a moan as I get a hit of his pine and musk scent. I need to get out of here. After last night, I need to retreat to my own space where I can resurrect the walls I keep around my emotions.
I force myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and groaning when my head thumps and spins.
It was the strangest thing to feel so stripped bare, to be left with no shield against the outpouring of emotion that had bubbled up from nowhere.
The tears hadn’t been born of pain or hurt, but relief.
Sheer, unadulterated relief at being so unburdened by the outside world—strangely freeing.
I pad on tiptoes across the hall into my own room and throw myself down onto the bed. Wrapping myself in a Zeke-free comforter that smells of nothing but fabric softener, I close my eyes. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know I’m being roused by the dip of my mattress.
“Take these and drink this.” A bottle of water is pressed into my hand, and he holds out his palm, revealing two small white pills.
The throbbing in my head feels worse, and my throat may as well be on fire.
Sliding myself up higher on my pillows, I take them gratefully and sling them back. “You didn’t have to move, you know.”
My eyes tumble to his as I swallow the water, seeing him survey me astutely with veiled brown eyes, his hair still deliciously mussed from sleep. “No mess, remember?” I say quietly, averting my eyes as I take another sip of water.
He makes an unintelligible noise deep in his throat and stands. “Get some sleep and shout for me if you need anything.” With that, he turns and walks away without another word.
***
By mid-afternoon, I admit defeat. Chloe Devlin does in fact get sick.
“I think I’m sick.” I sigh, throwing an arm above my head.
I’m lying on the couch, drowning in a pair of Zeke’s grey sweats that he threw my way when I finally managed to get out of bed.
I’ve been drip-fed pills every four hours and supplied with honey and lemon tea as well as soup.
If I didn’t feel so rough, I might actually swoon over how attentive he’s being.
“Yep,” he says, looking over at me with a small smile.
He and Diego are working on a preschool project.
The large, cherry wood coffee table is scattered with craft materials, and they’re currently attempting to attach rings around Saturn to join the other half-assembled planets that will make up a model of the solar system.
PG prowls interestedly around Diego’s legs, yowling for attention every few seconds.
“I was sick too,” Diego pipes up merrily, sticking his tongue out as he tries and fails to place a glob of glue on the section of paper maché Zeke is pointing at.
“Well aware, you little Petri dish.”
Zeke laughs, just as Diego turns wide, confused doe eyes on me as he places a hand absent mindedly on PG’s arched back to console him. “What’s a Petri dish?”
“It’s something grubby little germs grow in.” I cough, groaning as my throat burns. It hurts to swallow, it hurts to talk, and it hurts to just lie here. Diego’s rounded eyes bounce back to his father.
“Don’t listen to her, Diego. She gets cranky when she’s sick.” He grins, ruffling his son’s hair.
Two hours later, Zeke is scowling at a thermometer in his hand. “Jesus Chloe, you’re running at a hundred and two degrees.”
“Fantastic news,” I croak, shutting my eyes. Even I have to admit, I feel like death.
“Open your mouth.”
“Is now really the time?” I joke feebly, peeking up at him through half-closed lids.
He rolls his eyes, but I see his lips twitch. “Just do as you're told, woman. Diego had tonsillitis, which is pretty infectious. If you’ve caught it from him, you’ll likely need antibiotics.”
“How come you don’t have it then?”
“I had my tonsils out when I was eight. Stop stalling and open up,” he admonishes, slanting one dark brow. My throat feels gross and the thought of him peering down there sounds like the opposite of appealing.
“I assure you, I’ve seen the back of your throat before, Chloe,” he drawls wickedly, noting my hesitation.
“I’ve changed my mind about the dad-core thing. It’s not hot when it’s directed at me,” I grumble, but obediently open my mouth.
“Well,” he says contemplatively after a beat. “Unless you’ve swallowed two golf balls today, you definitely need a doctor.”
“Swallowing golf balls sounds like something that would also require a doctor, if you ask me,” I throw back, letting out a defeated sigh. He levels me with a stern look. “Fine,” I agree. “But if they try to put a thermometer up my ass, I’m out.”
Zeke taps a few buttons on his phone with his thumb and holds it to his ear, sliding his gaze back to mine.
“I think that’s unlikely, but on the off chance they do, I know you can take it.
” Sparks fly in those chocolate eyes as they swim with the devious memory of just what he did to me last night.
My cheeks flush in a way that has nothing to do with the fever I’m running, and I roll my eyes to hide the steady ball of tension forming in my belly.
Even when I’m sick as a dog, I still want to climb Zeke Guerra like a tree.