Page 85 of Forbidden Game

***

A hushed voice swims in my head.

Like I’m talking underwater, so it’s all muffled.

Except the voice is British.

I’m not British.

Something cool touches my forehead, and I lean into it, begging it to stay.

And it does.

Then I’m lifted into the air, floating on a cloud.

I ride the cloud until it turns stormy and starts to rain, sending droplets pattering across my skin.

It feels good, though, and I turn my face up to the sky before sinking back under, trying to ignore the pain all over me, trying to wash it away.

It feels like eons pass before I finally resurface and break for air.

***

There’s another voice.

Flashes of memories start to come back to me, and I will myself out of the haze.

My eyes crack open, and there’s an oddly attractive man in my room. He is bathed in a white light. Or maybe it’s a white coat. I should be concerned. Except, I also don’t know if he is real…and I’d seem really crazy if I started screaming at something that wasn’t there.

Although, if there was no one in the room, there would be no one to see me lose my marbles either.

When the man sticks something under my tongue, some of my senses return to me. Those flashes of memories start coming into focus, and I remember Parker’s voice, his hand on my forehead, the cool compress.

I blink rapidly as my eyes try to adjust to the low light of my bedroom.

I stare up at a man with a sharp jaw of stubble and cool green eyes, who is most certainly real, and let out a meek squeak as I try to scramble back. But my body is like jelly, and I don’t really make it more than an inch.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Lake?” His voice doesn’t really match how he looks; there’s a slight Southern twang to it.

“Not great,” I answer hesitantly.

He chuckles, capping the thermometer in his hand. “That would add up. You had a high-grade fever; it’s only just breaking.”

“You’re awake.” Parker stands in my door frame holding two mugs, and I see relief pool across his features. His face is lined with exhaustion, but his hair is still a perfectly styled wave of white blond on his head.

He’s dressed casually, which is an uncommon occurrence for Parker Covington. A tight blue T-shirt and dark gray joggers hang on his sculpted body. Even in my haze, he’s hot. When he spins to place the mugs on my armoire, I see the giant “Dior” letters printed across the back of his shoulders. Of course.

Parker perches on the side of my bed and helps me sit up slowly.

“What’s going on?”

It’s all still disorienting.

“You have the flu,” says the man in the white sweater. The more I look at him, the more he has that rugged mountain man parading as a city boy vibe. “Can I ask when your symptoms began?”

“I had a headache three days ago.”

“Yes, that’s what I feared.” He taps his jaw in thought.

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