I’m not sure why he’d care about my safety one way or another, but maybe that’s just the kind of celebrity he is. Walking around gifting girls alarm systems and kisses. There’s also the little matter of him keeping me from jail. It would be rude not to thank him properly, which means with baked goods.
That’s the only reason I got up extra early to do my makeup and changed ten times before settling on just the right pair of broken-in skinny jeans, the only thing I own that’s formfitting, and a white top that makes my breasts look great, if I do say so myself. So here I am, standing at his door, with mouthwatering cookies, looking as good as I can, and all I want to do is bolt.
This is my daily risk, I remind myself before knocking three times as decisively as I can.
After a few minutes and a few more tentative knocks, I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed that the door remains closed. I’m about to give up and leave a note when the door swings open.
My mind blanks. I try to speak, but when I open my mouth, there’s nothing there.
“Olivia,” Chase says, his voice even deeper and rougher than usual.
“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.