Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(35)

“I’m not mad,” he said, taking the glass of water from me. “I’m annoyed that you’re selfishly keeping this from everyone. What good is that doing anyone?”

“I’m going to tell my family. I just want to get a handle on it first. Geez. Cut me some slack. This is my first flare since the rheumatologist put a name to it.”

“Was this when you left town a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah. I knew something wasn’t right, and I had to meet with my dissertation director anyway to make sure I was headed in the right direction with my research.”

“It’s not right that you’re keeping people out of this part of your life. Now, get up,” he said.

“Why? Everything hurts, and I’m whiny. I’m not going to be less whiny someplace else,” I warned him.

“Up,” he said, gently tugging me to my feet. He guided me out of the room, and I limped across the hall to the bathroom.

The tub was filling with hot water. “Sit,” he ordered, pushing me down on the toilet lid.

I gaped at the tub. “You’re drawing me a bath?”

He pulled a carton out from under the doll-sized vanity. Epsom salts. “Yes. You shared your situation with me. I’m helping take care of you. You got a problem with that?” He dumped the salts into the tub.

I shook my head.

“Good. Now, do you need help getting undressed?” he asked, testing the water temperature with his hand.

“Nope,” I squeaked, clutching my shirt to my chest. I was still wearing the clothes I’d been in all day, too tired to change. His first glimpse of my naked body was not going to be helping me into a hot bath like an invalid. If he still wanted to move forward with a physical relationship, I would be draped in suitable lingerie, shaved, lotioned, and ready for action.

“Call me if you need help getting out,” he said and shut the door with a decisive click.

I would most certainly not need help getting my wet, ouchy body out of the tub. “Thank you,” I called weakly.

Alone and embarrassed, I stripped and eased my way into the water, sliding in up to my neck. God bless Scarlett and her deep tubs. It soothed instantly, and I decided to spend the night submerged if it meant feeling degrees better.

Then I remembered every celebrity bathtub death and pushed myself a little higher out of the water.

I heard Jonah on the stairs again, the bathroom door opened a crack, and I made a move to cover myself. But he merely dropped shorts and a tank top through the opening and then shut the door again.

I sighed and leaned back again.

My secret was out. I had a rare-ish disease that, if left unmanaged, would turn my spine into a question mark. It caused back, muscle, and joint pain. Fatigue. And, on occasion, not very attractive skin reactions and eye irritation. Now, the ball was in Jonah’s court. Would he still want to roll around naked with me? I didn’t think the odds looked good.

Pouting in the tub long enough to wrinkle like a raisin, I did feel marginally better. At least physically. I made a note to make warm baths a part of my “screw you, inconvenient disease” routine. Carefully, I climbed out of the tub, dried off as best I could, and pulled on the fresh clothes. I opened the door a crack. There was no sign of Jonah.

I stepped out into the hall and looked in my room. The pillows were arranged in a weird configuration. There was a fresh glass of water, two hot pads, and a portable fan.

“Get in,” Jonah said, appearing in my doorway and gesturing toward the bed.

“You don’t have to tuck me in. I’m not four.”

“You’re acting like it,” he reminded me, reaching out to hook a finger over my protruding lower lip.

“Hey. I’m the one with the incurable disease here. Doesn’t that earn me some slack?”

He sighed. “Please get in bed.”

Too tired to argue, I obliged.

Then got less tired and a lot more defensive when he leaned over me.

“Do not even think that you’re going to give me a pity kiss,” I said, slapping a hand to his chest.

To my humiliation and physical relief, he moved the first heating pad so it was under my shoulders and then tucked the second one under my low back. He arranged the extra pillows so that my knees were open to the sides, supported in a pose I recognized from yoga class.

“Oh, that’s kind of nice,” I murmured.

“It’s no pity kiss,” he quipped, but I could tell he was still annoyed.

“Remind me to talk to you tomorrow about why you’re exponentially madder than you should be, ‘kay?” I yawned.

He angled the fan toward me and pulled the blanket up, the slightest of smiles on his perfect lips.

“Goodnight, Shelby.”

I kissed my hopes for a smoldery summer fling with my handsome roommate goodbye.





19





Jonah





“I just have to put my contacts in and find a clean sports bra. Then I’ll be ready to run,” Shelby promised with a yawn from the top of the stairs. She was still in the clothes I’d laid out for her last night, her hair in a messy tangle on her head. And her glasses were crooked. She looked tired but less pained.

I shook my head. “We’re not running today, Shelby,” I told her as I laced up my shoes.