His head tilts as he swipes the T-shirt off the counter beside him, takes one step toward me, and crouches down to look me in the eye.
Really look me in the eye. In a way that makes me realize he’s been avoiding my gaze or turning away when I meet his. But not right now. Right now, it’s all dark chocolate and warm caramel streaking across multi-faceted irises. I note the fine lines beside his eyes. On anyone else, they’d be laugh lines, but on Cade they lend to his rugged sex appeal.
He smiles, making them crinkle even further. “No, Red. The bad news is that you have some barf on your shirt.”
I close my eyes and groan. “This is my go-to style these past twenty-four hours.”
“It’s okay.” His voice is like velvet dragging across my skin. “No one has ever looked better than you do with barf on their shirt.”
Popping one eye open, I regard him warily. “Are you hitting on the barfy girl, Eaton?”
He grins and reaches forward, fingers stretching for the hem of my shirt. “Let me help you, Red,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing sexual about the way Cade takes my shirt in his fingers, but it doesn’t stop my pulse from racing or my breath from quickening as he peels my shirt up, exposing my bare stomach and plain sports bra.
He’s such a gentleman, he doesn’t even glance down. He keeps his eyes on my face, even after I lift my arms and let him pull the shirt over my head. I will the nausea away, hoping upon hope I can hold it together.
But even the beautiful man in front of me can’t distract from the feeling at the back of my throat, the smell of my shirt as he moves it away.
“Sorry,” I groan before I turn back to the toilet, gripping the shiny edges as another wave of sickness hits me.
It racks my body and I moan, which is right when I feel Cade’s calloused fingertips at my neck, gently lifting my hair away from my face. I spend the next minute of my life hugging the toilet while Cade fists my hair and smooths gentle circles on my back.
I’ve imagined Cade taking my hair in his fist—but not like this. This is humiliating in a way I’ll never recover from. The magic is straight gone.
When the urge subsides, I quickly flush again, wiping my face before turning back to the sexy-as-sin man who just held my hair and rubbed my back while I emptied my stomach.
He continues caressing my back and, like the saint he is, doesn’t even look horrified by me. “It’s okay, Red. I got you.”
I got you.
There’s something about being sick that turns me into a child again. Helpless and pitiful. And the fact Cade is here and not annoyed is the biggest relief.
I nod and he pulls his T-shirt off the countertop again before carefully sliding it over me in a wave of cool fabric. It’s massive but it smells fresh. It smells like him—pine. And that’s not a smell that’s making me nauseous at all.
“You okay?” His expression is concerned but not panicked. There is something comforting about the fact he is so unflappable.
“Yeah. I might just . . .” I wave a hand around the bathroom. “Camp out in here for a bit. My dignity would appreciate a little privacy. Don’t quite know how I’ll repay you for holding my hair back while I got sick.” I shake my head and let my eyes flutter shut.
He laughs but it’s a gentle one. I hear him pull away, and I let myself slump against the wall behind me. The sound of him opening and closing drawers fills the small room, but I’m too tired to bug him about cleaning again.
Neat freak.
I feel the warmth of him as he approaches again. “Sit up, Red.”
“Can’t. Too tired.” Why is barfing so exhausting?
“You can do it,” he coaxes with one hand on my shoulder.
“I’m going to get you sick,” I whine, still not moving.
“I never get sick.” His thumb rubs sweetly across my collarbone, and I force my eyes open to look at him. “Come on, lean forward a bit.”
I don’t know why he wants me to do this, but it seems like he’s not leaving until I do, so I comply, even though the rebellious part of me wants to lean back and say, Make me.
It would seem nausea easily quells the rebellious part of me.
“That’s my girl.” His deep voice vibrates through my bones, and then his fingers are in my hair, gently combing it back into a ponytail and wrapping a soft silk scrunchy around it. One he must have fished out of my drawer.
I moan at the feel. At his words. My girl.
God, I must be delirious. I chance a peek up at his stubbled jaw and stern features, while he carefully pulls my hair back. I want to melt into a puddle, and I’m certain that has nothing to do with the stomach bug.