Page 94 of Fire
Grabbing my toothbrush, he lets out an amusedpfft. “I would rather we take up role-playing when you’re not puking your guts out, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
He slathers it in a bit of toothpaste, wets it, and hands it to me. “So am I the nurse in this scenario? Since you’re the doctor?”
“What? No. You’re the rock star,” he says, as if it’s an obvious conclusion. “We’re switching roles in this fantasy. I get to wear the white coat, and you’ll be the one with the bass strapped to your hip.” He pauses and swallows. “Fuck. Maybe this was a badconversation to start. Now, I’m getting hard at the idea of you holding my bass.”
I lean over the sink and spit out my toothpaste. “You could always teach me,” I suggest. “That would be one way of making your fantasy come to life. Or at least part of it. And if you’re really into wearing my lab coat, I could let you borrow it.” I look at him in the mirror’s reflection, my gaze running up and down his muscled frame. “Pretty sure you’ll rip it Hulk-style the second you put it on, though.”
I double-blink, and Hendrix laughs. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I confess, my gaze stuck on his in the mirror. “Why is that so hot?”
“’Cause you’re obsessed with me. Obviously,” he says with a cocky grin as he helps me off the counter. After I take a few wobbly steps, he bends down and swoops me up into his arms.
My stomach flutters, and this time, it has nothing to do with being sick.
Yeah, he might be right.
I think I am a little obsessed with Hendrix Creed.
After he gets me settled back in bed, he does what he does best and orders way too much room service, saying he doesn’t know what willjivewith my stomach.
Honestly, I’m not sure anything will.
I haven’t had to dash back into the bathroom yet, but it’s only been an hour, so I’m not holding my breath. For now, though,I’ve managed to keep down the little bit of water I drank to take the Tylenol for my fever.
And now, I’m enjoying the view of a freshly showered Hendrix walking into the main part of the suite in nothing but a low-slung towel and a knowing smirk. “See anything you like?”
“Maybe if you drop that towel a little lower,” I tease, even though my words lack the conviction they usually do. I don’t think I could follow through with any of the lewd thoughts going through my mind right now, even if I tried.
For someone whose job is to care for sick people, I’m a total hypocrite when it comes to being sick myself. At work, I always emphasize the importance of rest and downtime when a patient is unwell, but when I’m the one affected, I just want to get it over with. Rest? Who has time for that?
Yes, I know. I’m a terrible patient.
“Honestly, I’m mostly jealous that you’re clean,” I confess. “Even with the new shirt you got me and clean teeth, I still feel disgusting.”
“Well, that’s easy to solve. We can get you in the shower after we eat,” he says over his shoulder as he rummages through his suitcase. “Or rather, after I eat and we cross our fingers and spoon-feed you broth and crackers one at a time.”
“We?” I focus on that one word he keeps repeating. “What do you mean, we? You have to leave for your parents’ house in less than an hour.”
“I’m not going.”
I sit up straight and instantly regret it. The room tilts, and I clutch the side of my head as a spike of pain shoots through it. “What do you mean you’re not going?”
I feel the bed dip as he comes to sit next to me. He’s now wearing a pair of gray joggers. His chest is bare, and that little cupid tattoo is staring back at me. I’ve lost count of how manytimes I’ve touched and traced it with my fingertips. Kissed it with my lips. Licked it with my tongue.
It’s different from mine. It’s bigger. More masculine, if you can imagine a baby angel being such a thing. But every time I see it, I picture a younger version of him walking into a tattoo studio and sitting down in a chair to have it inked on his skin.
And thinking of me the whole time.
It humbles me.
It makes me feel things I probably shouldn’t feel a month in, especially not after my recent divorce. But I can’t help it.
I have questions I want to ask him when I look at this tattoo. Questions I’m too afraid to vocalize…
Did you ever think we’d see each other again?
Did you wish for it?
