Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(36)

“Hi. You-you’re, um…”

Shirtless. All he’s wearing are loose sweats that ride low on that magnificent Hollywood body of his.

I gesture to his bare, broad chest, all gleaming skin and muscles.

I’m so transfixed by his body, it takes a minute to realize he’s just barely hanging on to the door handle. He sways on his feet, and I come out of my stupor long enough to notice that his gleaming chest matches his glistening face. For the hottest man alive, he looks a little green. Don’t get me wrong; even looking like death is a good look for him, such is the power of his cheekbones, but he is definitely not well.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I reach up on my tiptoes to feel his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

My worry outweighs my shyness. “You need to sit down.”

I balance the box and cookies in one arm, grab him with my other, and pull us into his hotel suite. I manage to steer him toward the couch that has a pile of throw blankets on it. Half-filled glasses of various liquids clutter the side table. He looks as if he’s been camped on the couch for a while.

I set my items on the glass coffee table, fluff a throw pillow, and pat the couch. Despite swaying, he remains standing.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t sound annoyed, just confused.

“Daisy asked me to deliver a gift to you. I think it’s a very hipster vintage jacket, but don’t tell her I ruined the surprise,” I babble. “She gave me your room number and a secret name to tell the reception so they’d let me up. Jay Gatsby, huh? Very literary. Anyway, she would have come herself, but she had to go to Santa Barbara for her store at the last minute. I also brought you cookies.” I gesture to the tin. “I wanted to thank you for helping us not get arrested and for the alarm system. I didn’t know how to repay you, and everyone likes cookies. They’re chocolate chip.” I taper off.

I clear my throat and start again. “Anyway. None of that’s important right now. You have to sit down,” I urge. “You’re about to fall over. And you’re way too big for me to drag off the floor if you collapse.”

He looks ready to argue, but then he turns even paler. “Maybe I will sit down after all,” he mutters and sinks to the couch, resting his head on the back of the cushion.

I fuss over him, pulling up the soft blanket. “Are you hot or cold?”

“Yes,” he says through chattering teeth.

“That’s an either-or question.”

“Both. I’m sweating but freezing,” he explains.

“Did you take any medicine to lower the fever?”

He shakes his head. “I tried, but it didn’t stay down. I started to feel like shit after stopping at a food truck yesterday afternoon.”

I groan. “Was it the food truck a few blocks away? By the flower shop?”

“I think?”

“Mexican fusion?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t happen to get the seafood tacos?”

“Don’t say the word seafood,” he pleads.

“Oh no. Been there, done that. Pretty sure you have food poisoning. Can you hold anything down at all?”

“I haven’t tried in a while.”

“You need electrolytes. My grandma always gave me ginger ale when I was sick. Do you have anything like that, or maybe a sports drink?”

He shakes his head.

“What about someone who can take care of you?” It’s none of my business. But I’m concerned.

“I don’t need anyone. I’m a big boy, Olivia,” he mumbles.

“Daisy’s gone all weekend, so she can’t come to help,” I say, thinking. “What about Duncan? Can he take care of you?”

He makes a noise that might have been a snort. “Duncan’s a bodyguard, not a nurse. He’s not here, anyway. He has the day off.”

I bite my lip. “What about your assistant? Don’t all Hollywood stars have personal assistants?”

“Emma’s in LA. And she’d be worse than Duncan. Not exactly the warm, fuzzy type,” he mutters. “I need to close my eyes for a minute. The room won’t stop spinning.”

I watch him as he rests with his eyes closed, and I get lost in the masculine beauty of his features. I marvel that, despite his perfect appearance, he’s human, fallible, sick.

His breathing turns deep and regular in just under a minute. I stand over him, unsure of what to do now. I know what I can’t do. I can’t just leave him here with no one to help if his fever spikes or he becomes dangerously dehydrated. There’s nothing worse than being sick and not having anyone to care for you.

After Nanna died, I came down with the flu. I remember feeling so alone and longing to be a little girl again, to be fussed over with fresh-squeezed orange juice and lullabies. I wanted to be surprised with comic books and my favorite TV shows as I recovered.

None of that happened. Instead, I had to get to the doctor’s office by myself, sick and feverish, and then once home, I managed on my own, dragging myself to the kitchen when I was hungry to scrounge up whatever I could. It was lonely and scary. I could have called Daisy or Audrey, but I hated bothering anyone. I hate asking for favors. And though they’re friends, they aren’t responsible for me.

I can’t leave Chase like this, I decide. He may not like it, but I’m here regardless of what he says. It wouldn’t be right to walk out the door when he’s so sick, even if I’m worried about overstepping.