The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient #2)(70)

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, but if you need anything, you can call me whenever. If I don’t pick up, I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” Quan said.

“You don’t need to tell me this. I already know.” Quan was the most dependable thing in Khai’s life.

“Just reminding you. Okay, I’m gonna let you go now. Bye, little brother.”

“Bye.”

As soon as the line went dead, he looked around the vacant office, took a step, and almost ended up facedown on the floor. Sighing, he went down on one knee and grabbed his laces, but he tried multiple times and the things wouldn’t tie. What the fuck was wrong with him? He had to be coming down with the flu. Fed up with the entire process, he took his shoes off and carried them with him as he left the building and walked home. No way he was driving or going to a team-building thing like this.

The trek was long and hot and weird with no shoes on, and he was pretty sure people slowed down as they passed him. He didn’t feel at all like a Terminator today, not one in good condition, anyway. When he reached his place, he was sweaty, dehydrated, and badly in need of a shower, but after the door swung open, he stood there, unable to enter.

His entire body resisted going inside. His head spun, his heart slammed, and his stomach twisted. The house was too dark, and the musty air made him want to throw up. It didn’t make sense. He’d been in there just this morning. But he’d been too focused on possible Esme catastrophes to notice anything else.

He sat down on the concrete steps outside and smeared the sweat away from his clammy face. This flu really sucked. He was exhausted. He could sleep and sleep for ages. But he had to shower and air out the house first. That musty heaviness, whatever it was, had to go. Maybe one of Esme’s fruits was decaying in the trash and there were mold spores floating everywhere.

Gritting his teeth, he got up, stepped inside, and tossed his shoes to the floor, not caring where they landed. He couldn’t breathe. The air was thick and oppressive, all wrong.

Mold spores, mold spores.

He marched to the kitchen and yanked the trash out of the cabinet. Empty. What the hell? He searched the kitchen for other locations where fruit could be moldering away. None.

All surfaces were spotless. The only thing out of place was a half-filled water glass on the counter. Esme’s. Warmth pricked over his cold skin in a sick wave. He didn’t realize he was reaching for the glass until he saw his hand approaching, and he stopped himself before making contact. Curling his fingers into a fist, he backed away. He didn’t want to put her glass in the dishwasher like he always did. He wanted it … right there.

This suffocating air. He hurried through the house, opening all the windows and doors, but it didn’t help. His nausea got so bad he spent a few minutes hunched over the toilet, but he didn’t throw up. Bed, he should just go to bed, but not when he was sweaty like this.

Somehow he got through a shower without wounding himself in the process and dressed in an inside-out sweater to keep the seams off his skin and workout shorts—he wanted layers, lots of layers, and was looking forward to his heavy blankets. But when it was time to get in bed, his limbs locked, and he couldn’t do it.

It was official now. Esme was never going to sleep in this bed again.

No more naked Esme welcoming him close, inside her body, crying his name as she clung to him. No more Esme weight draped over him like a sloth in a tree, warm and soft and perfect. No more Esme smiles at night, in the morning, and every time he looked at her.

He yanked the comforter off the bed and carried it to the living room, where he wrapped the blanket around himself and collapsed onto the couch. Fuck, they’d had sex on this couch. On the green shag carpet, too. Everywhere. And there was another one of her half-filled cups on the coffee table. He couldn’t escape her—he didn’t even know if he wanted to—and his head felt like it was going to explode.

He covered his face with the blanket. And breathed in her Esme scent. At first, he expected his nausea to worsen, but his muscles relaxed instead. Heaven, sweet heaven. If he shut his eyes, he could almost imagine she was here, wrapping her arms around him, and sleep dragged him to a place where he didn’t hurt anymore.

Thank fuck for the blanket. He was never washing it again.

? ? ?

Khai woke at odd intervals throughout the night and the next day: 12:34 A.M., 3:45 A.M., 6:07 A.M., 11:22 A.M., and then 2:09 P.M.. That last time bothered him with its lack of logic, and he was scowling at his phone when Quan walked through the unlocked front door in jeans and an old black T-shirt.

Quan took in the shoes scattered on the ground, the opened windows, and Khai’s blanket-clad form on the couch and asked, “What’s going on? Did you burn a pizza in the oven or something? Why are you venting the place out?”

Khai sat up, but the blood rushed from his head from the sudden movement, and he slumped against the back of the couch. “The air felt funny.”

“You okay?”

He rubbed at his aching temples. “Shouldn’t you be in New York pitching for your B-round financing?”

Quan toed his shoes off and crossed the room to press a hand against Khai’s forehead. “I did the important stuff yesterday and rescheduled the rest. Was worried about you with the breakup and Andy’s death anniversary coming up.”

Khai pushed his brother’s hand away. “It’s just that flu that’s going around. Go back to New York. I’m fine.”