Page 66 of Lucas
I race to my room, reaching the bathroom just in time to collapse to my knees over the toilet.
Wave after wave wracks my body.
A large hand gathers my hair, holding it back from my face. “What’s wrong, Wifey?”
I turn my head to meet Lucas’s piercing blue eyes. He looks concerned.
“You’re home? I thought you weren’t here. The Jag’s not in the drive.”
“Had car trouble. Took another one. Doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head.
“What are you doing in my room?” I ask as the nausea abates, and I slump back against the wall, spent. The bed seems so far away now.
“What happened to you? Are you ill?” he asks, brow furrowed, two small lines appearing between his eyes.
“What are you doing in my room?” I repeat.
“I heard you come in, wanted to talk about what happened yesterday. Your door was open.” He says the words in an annoyed tone. “I wasn’t stalking you if that’s what you’re implying.”
I struggle to my feet, catching sight of myself in themirror. Bloodshot eyes, smeared mascara, hair a wild tangle around my pale face. I look as wretched as I feel.
And Lucas is here to witness me in this state.Lovely.
I try to finger-comb the worst snarls from my hair, attempting to make myself look somewhat human. I ignore his presence as I splash water on my face and brush my teeth.
Why should I care what he thinks of me? I shouldn’t care. Damn it all.
I grip the sink as another wave of queasiness hits, and I inhale, trying to steady myself.
“You need the toilet again?” Lucas asks, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back.
I shake my head. “No, I think I’m done. I just want to sleep.”
He nods and, without warning, sweeps me up into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I squeak, voice pitched embarrassingly high.
“Making sure you get to the bed in one piece. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Too weak to protest, I allow my head to drop against his broad chest, breathing in his masculine scent. For one moment, I want to stay like this, cradled in his warmth, safe.
Then I remember who he is.
He sets me on the bed and strides to the walk-in closet. “Where do you keep your pajamas?” He opens drawer after drawer.
My eyes go wide. “Don’t go rifling through my things!”
“Then tell me where they are.” He continues his search, undeterred.
“Top left,” I direct him through gritted teeth, and he pullsout a set of pale cotton pajamas. I was sure he’d choose some skimpy silk negligee.
“Here, change into these.”
“I’m not undressing in front of you,” I splutter.
“You didn’t seem to have a problem stripping down in the middle of breakfast the other day, so it shouldn’t be an issue now.” His mouth thins to a grim line.
Well, he has me there. But I was angry then, trying to mess with his head. Now I’m wretched and embarrassed. “Turn around.”
