Page 38 of Accidental Baby For My Brother’s Best Friend

Why does he look so good when he looks so serious? Not that he doesn’t have a great smile—that dimple makes him look positively rakish when he grins, but something about how tight and square his jaw looks like this, the long line of his nose…

Imustbe sick. My mother was right.

Axel touches my shoulder gently before getting off the elevator.

Locke draws in a long breath through his nostrils.

The doors close and I look at the numbers going up with acid rising in my throat. We’re on the 18th floor and I really don’t know if I’ll make it before losing my breakfast. The link sausages I ate at Waffle House desperately want out.

Twelve… up it goes… thirteen…I focus on the numbers and try to breathe in through my nose…fourteen…out through my mouth…fifteen…the elevator lurches to a stop at sixteen and I nearly tumble over, leaning on to Locke for balance.

“Hey, now,” Locke murmurs, gentle and low and almost soothing as he rights me, keeping an arm around my shoulder. “Are you really sick, little bit?”

I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat, unable to look at anything but the red light of the elevator floor number.

An older woman, around sixty, shuffles on to the elevator and she looks at the elevator arrow and then back at us sheepishly.

“I’m so sorry, I thought this was going down to the lobby.”

“No worries,” I choke out, and everything would have been fine if Locke didn’t squeeze my shoulder. I lean in to him, his touch making me feel less queasy.

The woman looks at Locke and then back to me.

“How long have you two been married?”

My face goes pale and I look up at Locke but he’s straight faced.

“Newlyweds,” he deadpans, and I choke back laughter.

The woman gets back off the elevator and I want to hit him but I don’t think I have the balance, so instead I allow myself to laugh.

Locke laughs with me, and for a moment, my heart skips a beat. I don’t read into it. I’m sick, after all.

“Should have booked us the honeymoon suite,” I crack, and Locke laughs, too, but low instead of loud and open like usual when I happen to make the right joke.

Locke has this deadpan wit that used to confuse me, but lately, I’ve been catching on and he’s quite funny, really. He’s not out there like Axel and Jackson or understated and witty like Samuel, but his sense of humor appeals to me.

Locke insists on carrying my luggage and I let him, mostly because I’m having to hold on to the wall for balance. He deposits everything inside and I gingerly lie face down on the bed. I close my eyes and expect to hear the click of the door behind him any second.

Instead, I hear the bathroom door open and the running of water, and then a cool cloth on the back of my neck.

I let out a long sigh. So good, I was almost sweating although my skin felt cool to the touch, a clear sign that I am indeed coming down with something.

“I’m never lying again,” I say, and it comes out in a slur. I’m more tired than I thought I was, but this tour has had us all running ragged.

"Good to know," Locke murmurs agreeably even though I'm not making any sense, and he rubs the middle of my back.

Jackson used to do that when I was little and couldn't sleep. I hadn't wanted to give up my crib so when my dad finally got rid of it I'd climb out of my little twin bed and crawl into Jackson's bed, which was a full size. He was barely a teenager and he'd grumble for me to go to our parents' room but I never did, just whined until he'd rub my back and put me to sleep.

If this was Jackson or even Samuel or Axel rubbing my back, it might feel just as comforting, and I tell myself that's what this is. As I start to drift off, though, I wish that Locke would climb into bed with me and hold me, remembering how his closeness had nearly taken away my nausea in the elevator.

I don't realize I've said it out loud until the covers shift and a pair of strong, warm arms go around my waist, pulling me close, my back against his chest. I think I’m delirious because I hear my voice, but I’m not sure what I’m saying or where I am anymore, and Locke simply spreads his hands across my belly and the pressure and warmth of them make my stomach hurt less, and the queasiness less awful.

I’m lying diagonally across the bed, near the wastebasket just in case, but Locke doesn’t complain about the lack of space for his big frame. He hums softly into my ear, some melody I’ve never heard.

“Did you write that?” I slur, half asleep, and he nods, his chin pressing into my shoulder. “When? I’ve never heard it.”

“Just now.”

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