Page 58 of Make Me Want it Too

Spencer shoots me a look again.

“I’ll just rest a little longer,” I say.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Bex grabs my hand, her blue eyes glistening.

“I’m fine. Sorry I ruined the morning.”

She waves me off. “Nothing is ruined.”

“All right, everyone out. Let’s let the young lady rest,” Charles says as he pats me on the shoulder then ushers everyone out the door.

“Wood,” I call out. He stops and turns before he gets to the door. “Not you,” I say. “I want you to stay.”

The tiniest, lopsided smile forms on his lips. He comes toward me, and just like that, the knot in my stomach disappears.

What happened this morning after I got out of bed is blurry. I was disoriented, out of control. But he helped me. I remember that.

I remember feeling weak and drowsy, and I couldn’t see straight. Not enough to give myself an injection properly.

Wood did it. He dealt with blood and needles, and he didn’t hesitate even though he was probably feeling lightheaded himself.

The bed dips when he sits on the edge. I reach for his hand, and he takes mine eagerly. He squeezes it, and I squeeze back.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I smile. He smiles. My heart is beating hard. “Thank you for saving me.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything special. Just what anyone would have done. I was kind of scared shitless the whole time, though.” He chuckles. “I’m glad you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

“It is a big deal. To me.”

We sit quietly for a minute, my hand in his. My pulse like a drum in my ears. I swallow, my throat dry and thick.

“Did… did something happen last night?” I ask, finally.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that I woke up in your shirt and…you said you put it on me after… Did we… Did something happen between us last night?”

“Oh! No, nothing happened like that.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Are you relieved?” he laughs.

“Yes. But maybe a little disappointed, too.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“I mean, our conversation before we left for dinner when you were talking about—” I’m not sure how to put it without disintegrating from embarrassment. My face is already red hot.

“The good fiddle-sticking, yes,” Wood finishes for me and I’m grateful for it.

“Yes, that. Well, you were right. I haven’t really ever had a good fiddle-sticking. Around the third course, I sort of got the idea in my head to ask you about maybe, um, showing me the good fiddle-sticking you were talking about.”

His eyes soften and his lips curl up slightly.

I don’t know how I’m still talking at this point and not hiding under the covers. “I know, it’s silly. I was so nervous about asking you I just kept drinking and, well, obviously, that backfired on me, and I didn’t go through with it.”

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