Page 118 of Roughing It

“Better?”

“Much,” she says before falling against me as her legs give out.

“Let’s get you washed up and into bed.” I carry Blakely to the clawfoot tub. Holding her while I prep the water, I adjust the temperature so it’s not too warm or cold and lower her into the bath.

Blakely sighs when I massage her shoulders. She settles deeper, and I pour handfuls of water over her head.

“Mmmm, that feels nice,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with sleep and sickness.

I grab her shampoo and take a sneaky whiff before squirting some into my palms. That signature Blakely smell washes over me. I work the shampoo into her hair, digging my fingers into her scalp as I lather her tresses. Then I rinse the suds away, keeping it from dripping into her eyes. I repeat my actions with her conditioner, finger combing her silky strands.

Fuck, I love her. I consider telling her. If not now, when? But before I can say anything, Blakely begins shaking again. Shit, she’s about to puke. Running, I grab a trashcan and get it to her in the nick of time.

The tears stream from her eyes again as her body spasms, the elderberries wreaking havoc. She shivers, so I gather her out of the water and wrap her in a large, fluffy towel. As I dry her, the trembling subsides, but she starts rambling. Gibberish mostly, more apologizing and bemoaning her embarrassment.

Hugging her tight, I lead her to bed and pull the blankets around her. I sweep a lock of hair from her face, her skin already sticky with sweat. Even clammy and pale, she’s perfect. I give her a quick peck on the cheek before changing out the trash bag and bringing it next to the bed. She’s not out of the woods yet.

I snag a sports drink from the fridge and open her mouth, tipping it between her lips. It’s the best I can do to replenish her dehydrated body. “One more sip for me; you can do it.” I encourage her, pouring another mouthful down her throat.

Once she takes another small drink, I turn her onto her side and slip into bed, spooning her. I drape my arms and legs over, cocooning my body around hers. It’s all I can offer, having failed to keep her safe again.

I wouldn’t blame her if she left tomorrow. The lake, the arrow, the blisters, and now this. How can she see me as anything but a fuckup?

Blakely’s eyes flutter close, and her breathing steadies. She’s almost asleep, but she’s still mumbling. Mostly random apologies and thanking me for taking care of her. But before drifting off, she says, “Not your fault.”

“What’s that, baby?”

“Not your fault. I love you.”

I freeze. It’s more gibberish. She doesn’t mean it and won’t remember what she said. Even though I don’t deserve it, I bury my face in her hair and whisper the words that’ve been on my heart for days. “I love you, too, Spitfire. More than you know.”

DAY TWENTY-FOUR

The light streaming into the cabin wakes me. With a groan, I sit up and check on Blakely. She had a fitful night, waking every few hours, her body desperate to purge the raw elderberries.

I press my lips to her forehead, grateful to find her skin cool.

She blinks at me, her eyes heavy. “What time is it?”

Reaching out, I caress her silky cheek. “Morning. How do you feel?”

“Better. No nausea or stomach cramps. No brain fog or chills.”

“Do you remember anything?”Like telling me you love me?

“Just eating the berries, panicking, and puking. All the rest is a blur.”

Damn.

I take two deep breaths, a half smile tugging on my lips. “How someone your size can vomit so much, I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. But the good news is, you’ve gone a few hours without throwing up, so I’m guessing the berries worked their way out of your system.”

Blakely groans and pulls the blanket over her head, hiding from me.

“Spitfire?”

“What?”

“Why are you under the blanket?”

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