Page 30 of Embracing the Beat
MICHAELA
Ihate getting sick.
It was fine when I was little and Mom would take care of me. I got to watch TV and eat on the couch, plus everyone else took care of my chores.
After leaving my parents’ house, no one cared if I was sick. There was still a job to do—a show or expensive studio time or any other grown-up responsibility.
I might be at home now, but Mom is gone and…wait a minute. I pop my eyes open, coming face to face with a sleeping West. His jaw is relaxed, mouth slightly parted as he breathes deeply. What time is it?
How about what day is it?
I remember being both pissed and hurt when he called us a mistake. Being so tired, I only wanted to lie down but hating that my bed still held traces of his spicy bergamot scent. And, no, I didn’t burrow my face into his pillow.
Yeah, sure, we can go with that.
So what happened between then and now? Better question—and more important at the moment—why am I in his bed?
“You’re going to get a wrinkle right here,” he murmurs, reaching up and running a finger between my brows.
I flinch and pull away from his touch.
“Wh-what happened?” My mouth feels like Death Valley, my lips cracking as I move them.
He rolls slightly and grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the nightstand beside him.
“It’s already open,” he says, handing it to me.
I twist the cap, lifting onto one elbow to sip at the liquid. It’s warm, but I don’t care since it tastes amazing to my parched mouth. A dribble escapes and slides down my chin. He catches it before it can drip anywhere else, his calloused touch reminding me of the other night. The one I told him was so forgettable.
Ha. Yeah, right. If forgettable means you’ll remember it forever.
Memorable or not, it doesn’t explain the gap in my memory from our conversation in the kitchen until now.
“Thank you.” The drink eases some of the dryness, and I try to sit up. He stops me with his hand on my shoulder.
“Wait…stay here with me a minute, okay? I’ll explain.” His eyes are so earnest, I can’t help but relax back against the cool pillow.
“I’m listening,” I murmur.
If he doesn’t start talking, I can think of something better to do with our lips.
No. Remember. Mistake. Not happening again. No more impulsive choices. Also, you probably look and smell like death. Cool it, girlfriend.
“West?” I prompt when he stares at me without saying anything.
“You were really sick,” he finally says. “I didn’t know at first. But when I didn’t see you yesterday morning either—”
“Yesterday?” I ask. “What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“Monday?” I sit up quickly, only for him to gently pull me back down. “You should be at work.”
“I called out sick today.”
“Why?”
“Why?” His tone says that’s a dumb question, but I don’t understand.
