Page 83 of The Lair

Knowing Travis, he’ll probably brush me off if I mention it. But when he flinches again, I decide his grunt of rejection will be worth it.

“Are you okay?”

That hard gaze slides down to me, and he gives me one single nod.

A nod that means nothing three seconds later when another explosion brightens the night sky and his hand twitches again.

Without thinking about the implications or consequences, I grab Travis’s hand and give it a squeeze. At first, I think he’s going to pull away. That would be the most Travis thing to do in this situation.

Instead, he starts tracing soft circles on my skin with his thumb every time a firework goes off.

The cold in my body melts away at the tenderness of his touch, at the fact that he’s seeking my comfort.

And for the first time, I wonder if there’s a chance—a very tiny one—that Travis feels the same for me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I sneak yetanother glance at Travis. To the normal eye, he might look and sound perfectly fine, but not to me.

It’s not often that I feel proud of my obsession with my boss. Althoughobsessionmight be a dramatic way to describe it. What I feel for Travis is… more like a crush that has gone off the rails.

And now, as I hear him sniffle for the umpteenth time as he cleans the tables, one thing becomes impossibly clear.

“Are you sick, boss man?”

He throws me a look over one of his wide shoulders. “No.”

I scrunch my nose. “Try again.”

He turns that massive body in my direction, pinning me down with a diluted hardened stare that tells me without words that I’m right. He doesn’t even have the energy to be his usual crabby self, and I find that more hilarious than it probably is. It’s not that I’m happy Travis is sick, but itisironic, considering hewas the one bugging me about catching a cold at the lake two days ago.

“I’m not sick,” he says in that gruff voice that sounds just a tiny bit raspier today.

I arch a don’t-bullshit-me eyebrow.

Without me having to add anything else, his chest rises and falls with a heavy breath before he admits, “I’m low on energy, not sick.”

This man.

“Okay. Well, let me know if your energy levels drop even lower, all right? I can drive you home and make you some energy-powering soup.”

He throws me another one of his not-so-pissed-off glares, but our conversation ends there as we go back to work. And if he catches me checking on him every five minutes for the next three hours, he doesn’t comment on it.

I pride myself on being a patient woman, always waiting for the other person to be ready to talk, ask for help, or whatever they need. But by the time our shift ends, I’ve had enough. Because Travis’s eyes have gotten droopier with each passing hour, his skin looks an unhealthy shade of pale, and he’s still wearing his snow jacket inside his house as he scans the fridge.

“Travis,” I call out. He either doesn’t hear me or is pretending not to, so I insist. “Travis.”

“Mm?” He finally acknowledges me, closing the fridge without having grabbed anything. “You hungry?”

I sigh and take a step in his direction, the tips of my socked feet nearly grazing his boots he still hasn’t taken off. “Are you going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you change into your home clothes?” Which consist of sweatpants, thick socks, and an old T-shirt—a far cry from the snow jacket, hat, and military boots he’s sporting now.

He narrows those green eyes at me. “I’m going to.”

“Oh, yeah? Before or after you admit you’re sick?”

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