Page 68 of Catching Sparks

“Can you pull my hair tie out? My head fucking hurts.”

He doesn’t reply, simply focusing on doing as I’ve asked instead. The arm curved around my back and over the thick swell of my hip shifts, his fingers grabbing the tie and pulling it free. I moan at the instant relief, the pleasure stronger than the pain.

My hair now flows over his arm and chest, and he dives his fingers deep, pressing the tips firmly against my scalp.

My eyes roll back as he works, not rushing or digging too hard. He massages my head for what feels like hours, not saying a word or expecting a damn thing in return. The dark, silent room, with only the steady thump of his heart beneath my ear, has me asleep again in no time.

A heavy weight keeps me pinned to the bed. Lying on my side, I stretch my arm beneath the pillow tucked beneath my cheek and swallow. A sliver of pinky-orange light stretches from beneath the hem of the curtains across the carpet, so it must be early morning.

A soft snore tickles my ear, hot breath rustling my hair. A timid smile tugs at my mouth. Shy has never been a personality trait of mine, but apparently, all it took was an arrogant and beyond-handsome billionaire to yank it from its hiding spot. Fancy that.

Said billionaire shifts behind me and tightens the weight—an arm—over my side and yanks me further into his chest. His leg cages mine as he buries his face in my hair and groans.

“I never took you for a spooner,” I whisper, enjoying my loose muscles.

He makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat and presses his fingers deeper into my lower belly, getting a better grip on me.

I lick my dry lips. My arm is weak from being stretched at a weird angle as I check the time on my phone and then set it back on the nightstand. It’s too damn early.

“How are you feeling?” I ask him, already making a mental note of all the meds he’ll need to have and what I’m going to make him for breakfast.

“Sick,” he mutters.

“Thanks, tips. Do you need more painkillers? Cough medicine?”

He’s hot against my back but definitely not sweltering like he was before we fell asleep. I’ll have to check his temp again to be sure, but hopefully, his fever broke overnight.

“Painkillers. And something for my fucking nose. I can’t breathe.”

“Got it.”

I wiggle free of his grip and dig my toes into the carpet, stretching my back. Garrison rustles the blankets, the bed creaking. Glancing over my shoulder, I find him flopping onto his back with an arm tossed over his face.

“What’s wrong? Is it your stomach?”

“Put some pants on before I park your ass on my face, honey. I’m at too far of a disadvantage with my stuffed nose. I wouldn’t be my best.”

A loud laugh tears up my throat and explodes through the room. He lowers his arm enough to meet my eyes. They’re filled with heat and a light twinkle of humour, the combination making my belly flutter.

“You’d take suffocating between my legs to a whole new meaning,” I blurt out, the words cracking with laughter.

A smile teases his lips. “There are worse ways to go.”

I shake my head, forcing myself to stop laughing. “I’ll be right back.”

His reply is a blunt “okay” as I step out of the room, still pantless and feeling too evil to do as he asked. It takes a few minutes to get breakfast ready and on a table tray, but once I’m finished, I know he at least won’t be going all day without anything in his stomach. If he throws it up, then I’ll try something else.

With all of his meds already in the bedroom, I bring the food right to him, avoiding the light switch. The light from the hall is enough to have me avoiding tripping on anything. I’m sure anything brighter would only hurt his head.

“Can you sit up?” I ask softly.

Garrison pushes himself up on his elbows and then sits on his butt, slowly yanking a pillow behind his back for support against the headboard. He blinks slowly, each one heavy. I know he’s tired, but I’m pretty sure it was a stomach growl I heard beneath my ear last night, and I should have fed him long before now.

I carry the tray of food to his side of the bed, and he lifts a brow, staring at the assortment of cheap, easy food. White toast with butter, a mug of peppermint tea, and a bowl with instant oatmeal that I found in the cupboard from who knows how long ago. I’m oddly nervous as I wait for him to say something. It’s just food, but it feels like more than that.

“The only person who’s ever brought me breakfast in bed is my mother” is what he chooses to say.

A million questions fill my thoughts, but I voice only one as I put the pain meds on his tray. “Are you close to her?”

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