Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(51)

Rising, I crept out of the loft and exited back through the kitchen again.

Five minutes later I was at the drugstore around the corner. Grabbing a hand basket, I filled it with a thermometer, Pedialyte, Sprite, and more Gatorade. I tossed in Tylenol in the hopes that he could keep some of that down, too, and then added saltines, Jell-O, and a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup for when he was feeling a little better. An employee helped me find those little frozen head packs. If he couldn’t keep the Tylenol down, I could press that onto his forehead.

Ten minutes later, I was walking back into Mulvaney’s. I gave a quick nod to the cashier. A smile touched her lips as she scanned the bags in my arms.

When I reentered the loft, it was to find the bed empty. Then I heard him in the bathroom.

“You okay?” I called out.

Several moments passed before he surfaced, wiping his mouth with a small hand towel. “Gatorade not such a good idea.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

His bloodshot eyes scanned me standing there with white plastic bags dangling from my fingers.

He flung the towel back into the bathroom with a sharp move. My gaze drank in the flex of sinew and muscles in his arm and torso. Even sick, he looked strong and powerful and sexy as hell. I blinked hard, shoving the totally inappropriate observation away. Now was not the time. And really, after his admission the other day, I wasn’t sure there would ever be a time for those kinds of observations anymore.

He took several dragging steps toward the bed. “You came back.” Not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And you went shopping.”

“Yeah. Just got you some things you might need.”

I moved into the kitchen area and put the cold things away, sticking the two little ice packs for his head into the freezer. Tearing open the thermometer’s package, I read the instructions and then approached him.

He watched me through slit eyes, eyeing the device like it might bite him. Or maybe that was just me in general. “You bought a thermometer?”

“Yeah.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held the button down and glided the roller along his forehead. Pulling my hand back, I read, “A hundred and two point four. We should get some Tylenol in you.”

He motioned to his now empty cup. “I can’t keep anything down yet.”

I nodded. “Okay.” Rising, I fetched a washcloth from the bathroom and ran it under cold water. It would do until the ice packs were chilled enough. Sitting on the bed again, I positioned the cloth on his forehead. Moving away, I gasped when he grabbed hold of my wrist. Even sick, his grip was strong.

His blue eyes drilled into me. “Why are you doing this?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

He shook his head once like that wasn’t good enough. “Why are you here?”

His fingers shifted, the tips sending hot little sparks up my arm. He should look ridiculous with the blue washcloth covering half his face, but he didn’t. He looked human and male and all too vulnerable right then.

“Because you need someone.”

It was the simple truth, but the words hung between us, and I realized they sounded like so much more than I intended them to be. His fingers slid from my wrist, and he expelled a heavy breath—like he suddenly remembered that he was sick and couldn’t deal with this—with me—right now. His eyes drifted shut again. Almost instantly, he was asleep.

Yeah, sorry to give such short notice, but I can’t leave her alone. She’s too sick.” I paused and listened as Beckie commiserated and assured me it was okay. “Thanks for understanding. I’ll see you Saturday.”

I hung up the phone on my manager, feeling a little bad about waiting until the last minute to make the call, but it had taken me the better part of two hours to decide that I couldn’t leave Reece alone. Or I wouldn’t. Either way, I had resigned myself to the role of nurse, even though he hadn’t asked it of me. Even though he didn’t want it of me.

“I’m guessing I’m the ‘she’ you were talking about?”

I swung around to meet Reece’s gaze head-on. “You’re awake.”

He pressed down on the mattress and lifted himself up on the bed, propping his back against the pillows bunched up at the headboard. “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost two hours.”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “And I didn’t get sick. That’s good. Maybe I can try that drink now.” He glanced to his left and, seeing that the empty glass was gone (I had since washed it), swung his legs over the side.

“No. Don’t get up.” I hurried into the kitchen, poured him a small glass of Gatorade, and shook out two caplets of Tylenol.

When I returned he took the pills from me and set them on his tongue, chasing them with a cautious sip. “Thanks.” He set the glass down on the nightstand. “You really don’t have to miss work for me.”

“Too late. Besides”—I motioned to his kitchen table where my books were spread out—“I got some studying done.” I had retrieved my backpack from my car after he fell asleep.

Nodding, he eased up onto his feet, instantly towering over me.

I held out a hand as though to steady him, even though all that bare inked skin made my pulse jump a little, made me remember the other night. Both nights. Here and in my dorm. They seemed more like a dream now than real. My body tangled up with his—all lean lines, hard angles, and curving muscles. His hands touching me in places no one had before. My gaze skimmed over his body. And there was that dangerous edge to him with half his torso inked up. Like he belonged in a prison yard lifting weights with other convicts. Not with me.