Page 61 of Marrying the Gardener
Feeling uneasy, I cut a glance toward him and find his unfocused eyes pinned to me.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You are much too kind.”
More irregular sensations squirm to life. I mutter, “It’s very different not minding if someone dies naturally from health complications and wishing a car crash on them. Besides, we have no way of knowing whether or not you’re in the will yet. It’s only been a few outings.”
Kaleb breathes a laugh. “Of course. Ignore my delusions. You aren’t being kind at all.”
Exactly. With a huff, I say, “I need to get you to bed.”
Delusions persevering, he murmurs, “Your bed?”
I’d rather not play games with his sense right now. When he was sober, he did not want to push things until after we’d cut the ties of our current marriage. I’m not going to make that commitment more difficult for him to keep when I respect it so much.
Therefore, I say, “Maybe tomorrow,” and leave it at that.
Chapter 19
?
Ugh.
Kaleb
Light is my enemy, and I am a fool. Why did I think drinking so much so fast would be a good idea when the last drinks I’ve had in years were two watered down scotches over the course of several hours?
I am not fifteen anymore. I am almost thirty.
I am no longer capable of getting blackout drunk with the guys and waking up like nothing happened when it’s time for my shift at Madame D’Clancy’s.
Now, my head thunders. My mouth’s dry. My stomach aches. My very bones protest.
Dragging a hand to my face, I groan low and roll myself onto my other side, begging the darkness to grasp me again. It’s truly cruel that Crimson’s main bedrooms don’t have blackout curtains. Instead of the relief from continued night, I live awash in red-colored light.
Cool fingers disturb my grumblings as they collide with my forehead, and my breath catches. Squinting blearily, I locate Crimson at my bedside. “You’re up,” she says, setting a collection of items I can’t fully make out on the nightstand.
I am not, actually,up.
Behold, my horizontal position, my adamantdownness.
Heavy breaths plunge through my body, and I discover that even when it feels like I have survived being hit by a train, the pound ofwantfor this woman runs deeper in my veins than any pain could.
Hissing swears coalesce inside my skull, creating new ones as I take in the blurry outlines of her body. She’s still in her nightclothes, those thin silky slips of seduction. I can’t stop myself from enjoying the peaks of her breasts or the taper of her waist or the flare of her hips. She’s so…beautiful. And I have touched her, grabbed her, held her.
My hands have filled with her time and again over these past few weeks, and no addiction comes close to the sensations.
I murmur a swear, reaching aimlessly for the being of all my desires.
She clamps a sippy cup in my palm. “Electrolytes.”
I blink. It…is a sippy cup. A blue sippy cup.
“Take these.” She discovers my other arm and plants a pile of pills in my hand.
“Wh…”
“Painkiller, potassium, multi-vitamin, a few other things I read were good for a hangover. Don’t choke.”
