“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.
So I get busy—clearing the dirty dishes, straightening books and magazines. It surprises me how many books he has in the hotel room for this short trip. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he loved reading. Why that makes me happy, I’m not going to analyze.
His hotel room, the penthouse suite, is unlike any I’ve ever been in. It’s luxurious, spacious, and equipped with a stocked gourmet kitchen.
First things first. I need to get him some ginger ale and other foods he might be able to keep down. There’s a small market half a block away. I look around and find a key card in a sleeve on the counter. I feel guilty taking it but justify that it’s for his own good. Thirty minutes later, I’m back with a bag of provisions.
Chase is still sleeping deeply when I return. I put a ginger ale by his side, debating whether I should wake him to drink some, but he looks so peaceful, I decide against it. I get to work making chicken soup, Nanna’s cure-all for whatever ails.
When the soup is simmering on low and the kitchen cleaned, I check on him again. His sleep is more restless now, and his skin is heated, so I take his temperature with the forehead thermometer I bought. It’s high, but not alarmingly so, and I don’t want to risk medicine upsetting his stomach. I wake him up long enough to get him to take more sips of ginger ale.
He falls back asleep immediately.
I kneel next to him and can’t help watching as he sleeps. Shirtless, he’s a revelation. All those bronzed muscles. His stubble softens his face, making him more approachable.
I sigh and lay a cool cloth on his forehead, my fingers running through his hair in a rhythmic, hopefully soothing, gesture. I’m not sure how long I stay like that with the cool cloth, my fingers stroking across his hair and face, but it’s long enough for the light and shadows to shift across the slowly darkening suite.
Chase makes a soft sound, and I pull back my hand, afraid of being caught like a thief, stealing things that aren’t mine to take.
I go back to the kitchen, looking for something else to do. Keeping my hands occupied will help me keep them off the sick man on the couch.
CHAPTER 14
Chase
I wake to a burning throat, a pounding headache, and an incredible smell wafting through the hotel suite. My eyes feel too heavy to open just yet. Do I smell…chicken soup? I open one eye, noting the twilight city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Why am I asleep on the couch, and how long have I been out? Foggy memories come slowly into focus. Olivia. I answered the door, and she was here. With cookies. She looked worried and told me to rest. I try to hold on to the feeling that comes over me, something warm and hazy, but it’s just beyond my grasp.