Page 126 of Sin
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation.
He sets the bags on my kitchen counter and turns back to me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“I told Tate.”
“Tate’s not me.”
“No, Tate is single.”
His mouth tightens. Even feverish, I know I hit something tender.
I close the door and lean against it because standing is hard and I have become eighty-seven years old in the last six hours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.
“I know.”
“Jenna was in your office.”
His expression stills.
I didn’t mean to say that. The flu has apparently murdered my filter.
“She stopped by,” he says.
“Wives do that.”
“Laurel.”
“I’m not mad.”
His brows lift.
“I’m jealous,” I correct. “Which is worse, because I have no right to be.”
He sets his jaw but says nothing. I laugh once, then immediately cough because my body hates me.
Sin crosses the room fast, one hand going to my back. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying.”
He guides me to the couch with an infuriating amount of gentleness, then helps me out of my coat. His hand brushes my forehead and his face darkens.
“You’re burning up.”
“I’m also emotionally unavailable right now, so please leave a message.”
He kneels in front of me and opens the pharmacy bag.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Medicine. Electrolytes. A thermometer. Tissues. Crackers. Soup.”
“You panic-shopped.”
“I shopped efficiently.”
