Page 65 of Take 2
“No. I fucking swooned.”
The towel disappears, and the blankets settle onto me in its place. “I’m not considering this to be a testament to my sexual prowess.”
“Good. Because it was only more physical activity and heat than my calorie and sugar intake could handle.” My embarrassment keeps my eyes closed.
“So when I say we need to eat, it’snotjust concocting delays?”
I groan. “This isn’t the time for I told you so’s.”
The sound of footsteps draws my eyes open. Preston returns to the bed with a towel wrapped around his hips, and a bottle of water in hand. He sits next to me and helps me sit up a little. A sip of water soothes away some of the tingly-numb feeling that’s crept over me.
“Well, I guess I’m officially old. My body rejected the idea of me being sexy and shut off.”
He presses his lips together, but the laughter is visible in his eyes. “You’re sexy one hundred percent of the time. That has to be exhausting. Give your body a break.”
I sigh and fall back into the pillow again. It’s wet and cold, as is my hair, and I couldn’t be more annoyed with myself if I tried.
“Hey,” he says, “at least we’ve flipped the caretaking trope back to the correct direction.”
“I’m not sick!”
“I know.” He pushes some wet strands of hair off my face. “But do you want to eat dinner in bed?”
I pout. “No.”
“Think we should, though?”
“Yes.”
His smile makes it hard to hold onto my frustration. He puts on shorts and a T-shirt and goes off to seek out food. My legs are sturdy enough to get me to the bathroom, where I shake my head at the reflection of the idiot who fainted. I put a shirt and underwear on and look at the bed. There is little about it that’s still usable. Hopefully, it takes Preston some time, because this isn’t going to work out for tonight. I call housekeeping and strip the bed myself to speed up the process.
I throw on some shorts before the housekeeper arrives. Ithinkshe scolds me for helping, but it’s in French. She leaves just as Preston returns. He smirks as he puts the large paper bag on the desk. “We’re the kind of people who need the sheets changed before even spending a night in them.”
“It would be far more badass of us if the biggest issue wasn’t that I had to be put on the bed unconscious and dripping from the shower.”
“I’m going to conveniently forget that part when I tell the story,” he says as he takes out the food.
“Who are you telling this story to?”
He drops his chin when he looks at me over his shoulder. “You tell James everything. Why can’t I tell people things?”
“You can, I’m just curious as to who. Especially since you’reapparentlygoing to fabricate details.”
“Not fabricating. Omitting some.”
I roll my eyes and open a container of bruschetta spread.
Preston hands me a small bag with sliced bread in it. “Sit so you don’t fall when you faint again.”
“I hate you.” But I do sit and grab a spoon to top a slice of bread with the tomato mixture. “Maybe that was on purpose. I was training you to provide me with food every couple of hours.” I take a bite, and the garlicky, fresh deliciousness pulls a moan out of me.
“Well, as long as feeding you and fucking you result in the same sound effects, I guess I can put up with your maintenance schedule.”
“In the French Riviera you might struggle to be as satisfying as the food.”
He takes a bite of a prawn, and his eyes glimmer with the promise of accepting the challenge. After dinner, and several mocking checks that I’m not going to blackout again, he proves to be a connoisseur of my pleasure.
Chapter Twenty-Five
