Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(38)

She’s done something kind for me, and here I am being an ass.

She nervously runs her fingers over her bracelet. With a start, I realize it’s the charm bracelet I sent to her the first Christmas we exchanged letters. She’d mentioned in a letter that she loved the idea of having a charm bracelet, with each charm representing her life, so I gave her one. The next Christmas, I had a miniature typewriter crafted for it, a Remington, but I never sent it. By then, we’d moved on from sending letters to texts, and it felt like breaking the rules to mail her another gift.

But every Christmas, I still buy her a new charm. I like imagining what she would like, which delicate trinket would mean something to her. I keep them in a box in my office and try not to think about why.

I lean over her now and touch her wrist, reveling in the spark that ignites. Her charm bracelet is empty. It’s selfish of me, but I’m glad she’s left it empty. I want to fill it myself. I vow to send her the charms I’ve bought. Someday.

“Don’t you like chicken soup?” she asks, a line forming between her brow at my continued silence and my touch.

I shake my head. “No, sorry. It smells delicious, and I’m starved.” My stomach growls.

I turn her hand over and trace the delicate lines of it, reveling in her warmth. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I’m not used to letting someone help. But I’m thankful,” I admit.

I move my finger back to the bracelet. “This is pretty,” I say lightly, my heart in my throat, wondering what she will say. Will she mention me—Remington?

“A friend gave it to me.”

“Just a friend?”

Her smile seems wistful. “It’s all he’d let us be.”

I don’t know what to do with all these feelings that I can’t name.

The night descending around us creates an intimacy that feels dangerous in a different way now. Or it would be dangerous if I weren’t weak and in desperate need of a shower.

She kneels down next to me and takes the spoon, dipping it into the bowl of broth. She holds it up and offers it to me.

“Are you going to feed me like a child now?” I ask, with a wry smile.

“You’re sick,” she says simply.

I want to balk at that. But something in her eyes, at her focus on my mouth, has me transfixed. So I open my lips, my eyes on hers, and sip the broth she’s made me.

It should be awkward. Instead, it’s intimate.

After a half dozen spoonfuls, she stops. “We better go easy,” she says, her voice breathless, her cheeks as heated as mine. “We don’t want to overdo it and risk having you sick again.”

I want to argue, but a sudden wave of tiredness hits me.

“Lie down,” she says, pushing me gently against the soft cushions. “You need to recover your strength.”

I’ll figure this all out after a short rest. When I wake, I’ll tell her to go, for her own good.

Later, I think, before sleep overtakes me.





CHAPTER 15





Olivia



That night, I fall asleep in an overstuffed side chair next to the sofa, where Chase sleeps fitfully.

When I wake throughout the night, I check his fever. While checking, it’s possible I stare at him a little too long, my hand brushing the soft strands of his hair out of his face.

It’s no wonder, when I sleep, my dreams are full of Chase.

In the morning, consciousness comes slowly. I open my eyes, disoriented, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, hovering on that precipice between sleep and reality. My lips tingle, my body is on fire, and am I panting? Trying to catch the thread of my dream, I lie still until I remember.

Oh, I remember.

Chase came to me in my sleep. His kiss was carnal and roamed everywhere on my body. I couldn’t get enough of him or his wicked mouth.

For a fraction of a second, I wonder if it could have been real because I suspect my panties are wet. With eyes still closed, I pat my hands over the blanket covering me, and I assure myself that my jeans and shirt are still on. I’m fully clothed, still reclining in the chair where I fell asleep. My breath rushes out in relief—or is it disappointment?

I will my eyes to open. And stare straight into Chase’s eyes.

“Ah!” I gasp in surprise to find him awake and looking at me with a mix of curiosity, amusement, and heat. That’s when I recall something else about my dream. Chase’s hands and mouth had me moaning. A lot. And not just generic moaning. I recall moaning his name over and over like a prayer, and—oh my God. Had I been having a sex dream, saying Chase’s name out loud?

“I didn’t—you didn’t hear—um.” My breath whooshes out.

“Good morning,” Chase says in a sleep-roughened voice, ignoring my fumbling attempt to ask if he knew I was having a horny dream about him.

I’m sure I didn’t moan out loud. The alternative would be too mortifying, so that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. A lifetime of practice avoiding reality comes in handy sometimes.

I sit up, smooth my hair, and rub sleep and rogue mascara from my eyes.

“Morning,” I mumble-greet Chase, angling my head down as I panic about the state of my breath. I need the bathroom. Stat.