Meet Me Halfway(62)

“Okay.” Part of me understood I was standing in my bathroom in only underwear and a thin tank, but I couldn’t muster up the energy to care. I didn’t even bother to glare when he placed a wrist over my forehead.

“Fuck, you’re burning up.”

“I think…taco salad.”

“What? You know what, never mind. Let’s get you in.” He gripped my waist like he thought the small step over the tub edge might send me sprawling face first into the shower wall, and pulled the curtain partly shut behind me.

I stood under the spray with my eyes closed, letting the lukewarm water run down my body and drench my clothing. I lifted my arms to push some rogue curls out of my face but froze when my fingers brushed against something firm. My eyes shot open, a cracked squeak leaping from my mouth.

Garrett stood mere inches away, wearing only his shirt and boxers, his bare feet almost touching my own. I hadn’t heard him undress, let alone step in. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you.”

“I’m f—”

“The word ‘fine’ better not leave your mouth.”

I smashed my lips together, unwilling to agree but also knowing I couldn’t argue an obvious fact. I sighed, accepting defeat and closing my eyes again. If I didn’t look at him, maybe I could trick my mind into thinking he wasn’t there. But less than a minute later, his hands wrapped around my shoulders.

“Turn around so I can wash your hair.”

I resisted his attempt to twist me, “It’s—” I cut myself off. Great, I was never going to be able to use that damn word again. “My hair doesn’t need to be washed.”

“The vomit clinging to the strands by your face beg to differ.” His eyes drifted down, but I refused to follow his gaze. If I saw even a hint of vomit on my person, I’d lose it all over again.

“I can wash my own hair, Garrett. My curls are picky, and I have an entire routine, and… Why are you smiling at me?”

He twisted me again, catching me off guard and turning me until the back of my shoulders grazed his chest. “Shut up and let me take care of you. I know what I’m doing.”

I watched his arm snake down in front of me to grab my bottle of no-poo shampoo from the corner shelf.

“You…do?”

“My mother’s hair is blond and not quite as curly as yours, but it’s similar. My grandpa used to call her his Shirley Temple because of it.”

A tired chuckle escaped me. “My dad called me the same thing.”

I couldn’t see him, but somehow, I knew he was smiling, and I wondered if I’d see a hint of his dimples if I looked back. I heard the click of the bottle opening, felt the brush of his arm as he returned it, and then his fingers were sliding though my hair.

He cleared his throat, “When I was younger, I made the mistake of telling my mother about the abundance of hair tutorials online.”

If I’d have had the energy, I would’ve laughed, knowing what he was about to say next. But then his fingers started drawing circles along my scalp, and a deep, uncontrolled moan exited my mouth instead.

His hands paused their ministrations, his nails digging in for a fleeting moment before continuing their path.

“She made me sit and play video after video for her, writing down all the tips and tricks.”

I tilted my head up to see him, leaning the back of it against his chest, and caught the tail end of a nostalgic smile.

“Anyway, my point is I know all about pineapples and plopping.” He looked down, meeting my gaze while working his hands down the sides of my head.

The brush of his fingers against the tops of my ears sent a shiver racing down my spine, and I closed my eyes, allowing myself to enjoy a moment of weakness.

“Thank you, Garrett.”

“Don’t thank me, baby. I got you.”





Consciousness eased in slowly, gently, coaxing away the lull of my heavy eyelids and warm limbs. I was comfortable and felt surprisingly well-rested. I cracked an eye open, blinking away sleep and focusing on the wall across from me.

It took me a second to understand I was in my bedroom. In bed. In the middle of the day. I pushed up onto an elbow and rubbed my face. The damp edge of a bunched-up t-shirt around my head brought the morning’s activities slamming to the front of my mind.

Vomiting. Garrett. More vomiting. The shower. Holy shit. My sticky skin told me two things. One, my fever had at least broken while I slept, and two, I’d have to take an actual shower all over again.

I flushed, remembering all the sounds I’d made when Garrett had tipped my head back into the spray and massaged all the product out. No one had ever done that for me before. It was, by far, one of the hottest things to happen to me, and if I hadn’t had puke breath and a raging fever, I might’ve climbed him like a tree.

He’d been a gentleman the entire time, never once even ogling the nipples I knew were visible through my soaked tank. He’d helped me out and bundled me in a towel before disappearing to let me change back into pajamas, and returning with a t-shirt to squeeze the excess water from my hair.

He’d wrapped my wet locks up off my neck, tucked me into bed, spoon-fed me children’s acetaminophen, and even retrieved the bucket to set on my nightstand. I’d watched him the entire time, wondering what his ulterior motives were. If he had any.