Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(100)

My hair had been washed.

Long fingers against my scalp, supporting my head with deft, gentle palms, rinsing out the suds, and placing two light kisses over each eyelid and one soft, brushing caress of a kiss against my lips.

Frowning at myself and the memory, I rubbed my forehead as I left the bathroom. Thoughts of the kids—especially Frankie—kept my feet moving while vague impressions from earlier in the night stalked me on my way to his room.

Had . . . Jackson given me a bath? And washed my hair? And kissed me?

Nooooo.

That made no sense. If Jackson had come over last night, then Rae would’ve been over too, and she would’ve been the one giving me a bath. I couldn’t fathom her kissing me. But then again, she was half Italian, and they’re a very touchy-feely people. I’d never noticed her hands before. Could it be that she had man hands?

I checked on Frankie. If my recall could be trusted, he seemed to be exactly where I left him the night prior, curled up in his big-boy bed. But someone must’ve dressed him. I’d laid him down wearing only a pull-up, not wanting to risk waking him by putting on night clothes. He now wore puppy PJs.

Must’ve been Ashley.

Relief coursed through me when I placed a light hand on his forehead. He was warm, like me, but not hot. Thank God. Turning, I left his room as quietly as I came in and then checked on each of the others in turn. Kimmy was sprawled out in the center of her double bed; Joshua had migrated to the floor—not unusual for him—and was twisted in his blanket; and Sonya lay pretty and peaceful beneath the covers of her princess canopy. All three of them were in their pajamas. Huh.

Clearing my throat of the scratchiness rather than risk a cough, I decided to grab a spoonful of honey while I was up. I did feel a whole lot better, maybe even well enough to go back to work on Monday.

On my way to the kitchen, a yellowish light from the family room snagged my notice. I altered course to flip off whichever lamp had been left on and almost screamed at the unexpected sight of a man standing inside my back patio doors, holding some sort of . . . Is that a spackling tool?

Hank?

Yes, Hank! What the—?

He turned over his shoulder at my strangled sound, his features changing from open and curious to a severe frown in the span of a single blink.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

Heart racing at approximately one hundred miles per hour, I pressed my palm against my chest and gawked at him, completely unprepared for . . . him.

“I—”

“You should be asleep.” He set down the spackling tool on top of a bucket and then proceeded to wipe his hands on a towel. “Did you take your temperature? What is it? I swear to God, Charlotte—if I have to call Ashley again, I will. I will wake her up and haul her ass over here if you don’t get back in that bed.”

Tremendously confused, and undecided what I should do about it, I stared at him. My lungs filled with heat, a response that had nothing to do with my residual fever.

Hank was here? But—but how? And why? And when? And . . . why?

As I toiled to make sense of his presence, his glare transformed into a wary kind of concern.

Eventually, he tucked the towel into his back pocket and approached. “Charlotte, honey? You okay? Are you—do you need me?” As soon as he reached my planted position, he placed a hand—a man hand, with long fingers and a deft, gentle palm—over my forehead. “You’re warm but not hot,” he muttered to himself, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “How’s the dizziness?”

“Better,” I croaked, blinking up at him. He’d been here earlier. I hadn’t imagined it.

“Good. That’s good. You’re looking better, too. Ashley said you have double ear infections, but they’re not bad and should clear up with the drops by tomorrow. It was the exhaustion and dehydration that knocked you flat.” Hank drew his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it. Then, before I could quite comprehend his intent, he scooped me up. “I’m carrying you back to your room. We don’t need a concussion on top of everything else.”

My arms instinctively went around his neck and a wave of dizziness did hit me then. But again, I doubted it had anything to do with dehydration and everything to do with the fantastical man who currently held me in his arms, who I’d been indulging in fantasies about each night for the last month as I felt asleep.

He strolled through the house like he’d been here before and had familiarity with its layout, down the hallway, to my bedroom.

“You gave me the bath,” I whispered as I realized the truth. “That was you.”

The side of his mouth tugged and his eyes swept over my—I’m sure—owlish expression. He placed a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Technically, you gave yourself a bath. I helped you undress and washed your hair, though,” he said, his tone soft, rumbly, wonderful.

Hank placed me on the bed like I was made of something more brittle than glass, more precious than a newborn. and my heart seized, not knowing what to do.

“How’s your throat?” He pressed the backs of his fingers to my forehead again before reaching for the thermometer on my nightstand.

“A little scratchy.” I allowed him to tuck me in as I explained, “I was on my way to get honey when I saw the light on in the family room.”

He nodded and lifted the thermometer to my lips. Dutifully, I parted them and he placed the instrument under my tongue.