Page 66 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

I want to laugh (but that would hurt), because nothing feels easy at this moment.

And then, as I sit there in the dim light with tears streaming down my cheeks, I hear the front door creak open. It has to be Blake. Oh no. He can’t see me like this.

Then again, I don’t have the energy or strength to shut the bathroom door, even though it’s only two feet away.

“Lucy?” he calls from down the hall, where I hear his keys clatter into the metal bowl on the foyer table. “You here?”

I manage to groan, though I half suspect it sounds like a dying cat, and when he appears in the doorway—his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his khaki pants sporting a tiny grease stain—my tears flow faster.

And it’s not because he’s seeing me like this.

It’s because I’m…relieved.

Not what I expected to feel at all. But I do. Relief that someone more capable than me (at the moment, anyway) is here to take charge.

To take care of me.

His features flicker with concern. “What’s wrong?” He lowers himself beside me and presses the back of his hand against my forehead. Ahhh, it feels even cooler than the tile. “Baby, you’re burning up.”

Did he just call me…?

Aaaaand my body chooses that moment to vomit again. All over Blake’s shirt.

How mortifying.

“I’m so sorry,” I sob, and lie down so my head is once again on the floor.

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

I feel his hand stroke my back, and the touch is so tender I want to die. (I’m sensing a kind of morbid theme going on in my brain tonight. Guess that’s what being sick brings out in me.)

But I can’t believe he’s still here, honestly. My head throbs.

He rustles around for a moment, and I hear something swoosh onto the floor near the door. Peeking up, I see his balled-up shirt lying there. Then, with gentle hands and a “Come here, Sunshine,” he’s easing me up, pulling me between his legs, and leaning my head against his chest, which now sports a white T-shirt that must have been underneath the dress shirt. The cotton is soft and worn against my cheek, and it smells like butter and sage. Like home.

“When did you start feeling sick?” he murmurs.

“A few hours ago. I had sushi at the twins’ birthday and…” My stomach rumbles again. I shut my eyes and manage to stop the room from spinning around me.

“Have you had any fluids since this started?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I could keep anything down.”

“Will you try for me? It’s important to stay hydrated.”

I whimper at the idea but nod anyway. For him.

“Good girl,” he says as he smooths my hair, which probably has puke in it. Sweet macaroni, if this isn’t enough to scare away the guy I’ve finally admitted to wanting, I don’t know what will. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

No. I don’t want to be alone again. I slide my hand from his chest to his taut waist, wrapping myself around him like a pretzel.

He chuckles. “I just need to go get you some meds and Gatorade, okay?”

I shake my head. “Don’t leave.”

Blake kisses the top of my head. “I’m not going to leave you, Sunshine.” His words feel more meaningful than they probably should. He’s not talking about forever. He’s talking about right now. Because I’m sick.

And yet, my stupid heart chooses to find some semblance of hope in his phrasing anyway.

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