Page 41 of Drop Shot
“You’re sick.”
I clench my jaw. It’s not a question. “I have a migraine,” I bite out. “It’s hot.”
He frowns, looking me over like he’s searching for any sign I might be lying.
“You’re still flaring,” he accuses. “You should’ve stayed home.”
“You’re not paying me to stay home,” I remind him.
He rolls his eyes. “Your well-being is more important to me than making fuckface Jackson happy.”
“Don’t call him names,” I mumble. “He’s a decent manager.”
“Not when I know it’s because of him that you’re not taking care of yourself.”
“I’m supposed to be at your matches,” I mutter, looking down at the pointed toes of my heels. “So here I am.” I look up at him and his lips twitch at my pathetic attempt at spirit fingers. “Your own personal cheerleader.”
His lips purse and he leans in, caging me into the wall. He rests one arm above my head and with his other hand he pinches my chin. “I’m taking you home, Whimsy.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. You need to shower and you have interviews and you need to meet with your team.”
His eyes narrow on me. He knows I’m right. “You’re not staying here.”
My chin juts out stubbornly. “I’ll find a cool, quiet spot and I’ll be fine. That way if you need me, I’m here.”
His eyes narrow. “Ineedyou taking care of yourself. I’m getting you a car and you’re going home and you’re going to text me when you get there. Got it?”
I want to argue. God, I want to fight him so bad on this just for the principle of it. If I hadn’t told him about my lupus he wouldn’t be this concerned, and before, when I was his assistant, I would’ve made sure not to go to the game today and be in the heat. I would’ve stayed in one of the air-conditioned spaces and gotten work done.
“Fine,” I agree, but only because the migraine is pulsing behind my eyes and I know that means I’ll be useless very soon.
“Good girl.”
His lips graze my cheek with the words, sending a shiver down my spine. Despite the way I feel, I still have to squeeze my thighs tight.
He pulls away from me and grabs his phone from his pocket. He types rapidly on the screen.
“Car’s on the way.”
I drop my eyes. “What kind? I’ll go wait.”
He shakes his head. “I’m making sure you get in that car, Whim.”
“So bossy,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “I don’t need an escort.”
“It’s for my peace of my mind,” he says, voice softer this time.
It’s kind of hard to argue with that.
He takes my hand, guiding me through the throngs of people and ignoring the chants of his name.
He doesn’t let go until the car shows up and he stows me safely inside. He raises his hand in a wave as I go.
It’s not until I’m almost home that I realize, of course, he was only holding my hand for show.
CHAPTER 13
ELIAS
