Page 31 of Embracing the Beat
“Yeah.”
“You’re sick—were sick. You don’t feel like you have a fever anymore.” He rests his palm against my cheek, and the desire to lean into his touch is powerful. I fight the urge, intent on staying strong. “Your eyes aren’t glassy anymore either.”
“I feel better,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Come get me or text me or something? I feel like shit. You were suffering and—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m a big girl, I can, and have, taken care of myself when I get sick.”
“But I was here. I could have gotten you medicine sooner. I don’t run away at the first sign of trouble.”
No, you just call it a mistake.
I bite the words back. The other night shouldn’t have happened. I can admit that. Even if I don’t want to. He’s being mature. Responsible. I need to be more like him. It was nice to be wanted though. Especially by someone like him.
“Well, thank you for taking care—hey, wait a minute. Wasn’t my door locked?”
His cheeks pinken, and he grins sheepishly. “I picked it.”
“What? West—”
“I was worried about you. I’m glad I did too. Your fever was insane.”
“I would have been fine, eventually,” I argue.
“Tylenol helped you get there faster,” he counters.
“Why am I in your room?”
“I wanted to keep an eye on you,” he says, like his response is reason enough.
“Still doesn’t explain anything.”
He sighs. “I washed your sheets, aired out your room a bit. Changed your clothes. I—”
“You changed my clothes?” I lift the covers and, sure enough, different pajamas than the ones I lay down in two days ago. “All of them?”
He rolls his eyes at my high-pitched squeak. But after our conversation in the kitchen, I didn’t anticipate him seeing me naked again.
“Not a big deal. You were sick.”
“West!”
“What? You have to admit you feel better than you would if you had woken up in clothes you’d been wearing for several days.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“I do, but—”
“You’d have done the same thing for me.”
I would, but I might also have ogled him a little. Maybe. The thought of him seeing me naked again—even if I was sick—still has heat crawling up my cheeks.
“Is your fever back?” He lifts his arm again, and I scoot out of reach, nearly falling out of bed.
Graceful, thy name is Michaela.
I swat his hand away. “No.”
“Then wh—oh. Why are you embarrassed?”
