Page 65 of Catching Sparks

“Nathan is my closest friend and Swift Edge’s vice-president,” he says weakly.

“Mixing work with friendship can be a slippery slope.”

“Not for me.”

“Of course not. The Garrison Beckett doesn’t share the same problems us mere mortals have.” The teasing note in my voice is obvious, but when he frowns, I get hit with a gut punch of guilt.

“I don’t think I’m above you in any way, Poppy,” he admits sheepishly.

I try to fight a smile and fail. Dropping my eyes to the bed, I tighten my grip on the cloth in my hand. “Good. Because while you may have way more money than me and wear expensive clothes that I’m sure cost more than my entire house, I know what I’m worth. And there isn’t enough fortune in the entire world to touch it.”

“I know.”

I look up, and our eyes meet. Garrison breathes steadily, one slow inhale and then an exhale, but I can’t seem to get enough air in to reciprocate his apparent ease.

He doesn’t look at me like someone does a friend. With or without benefits. His stare is serious, alive. It doesn’t matter how tired I know he is or how much pain he’s in. I’m not so out of practice with men that I don’t recognize when one’s staring at you like they want to pull you close and keep you there, tucked in their arms.

Yet I can’t get myself to stand and leave. Not when that’s the last thing I want to do. It would be stupid to curl up beside him in bed and let our desires run their course. He may appear lucid, both his words and eyes telling me just how clear his mind is right now, but I can’t fall into the trap of allowing myself this right now.

Messy. Naive. Risky.

We’re three weeks into his eight here. And once we hit the end, he’s gone. Forever.

The reminder is a rush of cold water through my veins. I drop his gaze and force myself up and off the bed. My skin feels hot, like I’m the one with the fever, as he keeps his gaze fixed on me, watching every emotion I let show.

“I’m going to run you a lukewarm bath. We need to drop your temperature,” I ramble before tucking tail and running to the bathroom.

I leave the lights off in the small bathroom and turn the bathroom tap ice-cold. Sticking my fingers beneath the water, I let them go numb. In for three, out for three. Breathe and move on, Poppy. I took him home to take care of him, and I’m going to do the damn thing whether or not I’d prefer cuddling him for the upcoming few days instead.

A beyond-frustrated groan escapes me. Work. The studio is open tonight and Friday. Both Bryce and Anna have extra keys, but only Bryce knows enough to run a class, and even then, I wouldn’t choose that option if I had a way to avoid it. Garrison may be better by Friday, but there’s no way I’m going to leave him here alone tonight.

Adjusting the tap so warm water mixes with the cold, I plop the cloth into the tub. I dry my frozen fingers on a hand towel and then slide my phone out of my back pocket to send off another series of texts to Bryce, begging her to take over class for me tonight. It’s unfair to ask this of her, but if she doesn’t want to, she’ll tell me that. Bryce is straightforward, not one to waste her energy beating around the bush.

I blink at myself in the vanity mirror, noting how messy my high ponytail has become with frizzy baby hairs sticking out everywhere possible. The lack of makeup is disconcerting. I’m not the sick one, but I could probably pass for it right now.

Garrison can consider us even now that we’ve both seen each other looking less than our best.

My phone buzzes with Bryce’s response, and my shoulders slump forward with relief.

Ice Ice Baby: He better be worth your time. But yeah, I’ll take care of BB today. Obviously.

I reply with a string of thank yous and too many heart emojis before tucking my phone. Every step back to the bedroom sounds like a stomp, no matter how light I keep them.

The lump in my bed moves as Garrison shifts further into the centre of it, his head nearly falling in the dip between my two pitiful excuses for pillows.

“Come with me,” I murmur, coming to the side of the bed.

Leaning over the mattress, I extend my arm across the empty space to pull the comforter away from his body. His fingers clasp around my wrist, seizing my movements. A water droplet falls from my wrist to the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t so much as blink at it. He’s too focused on me.

“If there is anyone who is above anyone, Poppy, you’re above me. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.” The words are tight but not forced. Honesty burns through each one.

I doubt many people have ever heard him apologize, let alone in a state like this. Exposed and vulnerable.

“How about we agree to be equals? You can be the rich one, and I can be the funny one,” I offer, pushing my hand forward, his fingers still curled around it.

After a moment, he lets me pull him out of bed, a soft sigh slipping through his parted lips.

“I like that. For now,” he whispers, swaying on his feet as I wrap my arm around him and guide him through the room.

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