The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(11)

“Oh my. You look awful.” She placed the bags on the dresser and hurried over to him. Once again, she pressed her hand against his forehead, her fingers cool against his torturously hot skin.

He placed his hand over hers. “Cold,” he gasped.

“We need to get you cooled down. Do you think you could manage a cool shower?”

The bathroom felt like a million miles away, but he pulled himself to the edge of the bed. He stunk, and his long hair was matted to his skin. Pixie stepped around the bed and helped him up. It was depressing to admit he actually needed her help, and he tried to avoid placing his full weight on her shoulder. She was so freaking tiny, he could compress her spine.

“Want to join me, Pix?” he said with more confidence than he actually felt.

“I think you’re being a bit optimistic about your stamina,” she laughed. “You get cleaned up, and I’ll get this bed changed. I saw housekeeping as I came in.”

Dred showered in freakishly cold water then towelled off. He brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. Exhausted by the whole undertaking, he rested both hands on the edge of the sink.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”

Am I decent? Great question. He wrapped the towel securely around his waist.

“Yeah,” he answered. The door opened.

“Gargle with this.” Pixie thrust a red Solo cup at him. “Saltwater. It’ll do your throat good.”

He did as she instructed. When he returned to the bedroom, his bed was made up and turned down. The idea of cool, clean bedding was heaven and he wanted to collapse into it, but the delicious smell coming from the food on the desk was too tempting.

“Come, sit. It’s chicken noodle soup. And the Styrofoam cup is freshly squeezed orange and spinach. Don’t look at it, just drink it.” Pixie perched on the edge of the desk, and he tried his damnedest to ignore the way her skirt raised up her thighs.

Dred looked at Pixie as she pointed out everything on the table. Vitamin C and zinc tablets. Echinacea. Her beautiful purple hair, tied up in a loose ponytail, swung as she moved. Pixie could have been feeding him dog food and he wouldn’t have cared. She’d obviously gone to a huge amount of effort. Maybe it was because he was sick, but it rocked him.

He took a large drink of the juice and it felt heavenly to his throat. It was ice cold and refreshing.

“Let me put some pants on before I sit,” he said to her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. When he was feeling better, he’d make this up to her in some way.

All of his belongings were neatly put away in the closet and drawers. He couldn’t stand living out of a suitcase. His entire life had revolved around the contents of the one suitcase his mother had allowed him to keep as a child. They moved so often, sometimes daily, that he was never permitted to unpack. Now, he couldn’t stand to look at them. Suitcases represented so much more to him than a place to store clothes.

He grabbed a pair of loose track pants from a shelf. Pixie was checking out his back. He could see her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. It was cute the way she bit on the side of her thumb. Trent had warned him the previous evening that if he was serious about starting something with Pixie, he needed to go slow with her. But the look in her eyes revved his engine, even if he was too f*cking ill to do anything about it.

Watching her reflection, he dropped the towel to the ground. Pixie’s mouth opened slightly. She looked away quickly, but clearly couldn’t resist taking another quick peek.

He pulled on the pants. Commando worked, partly because he liked the boys to have their freedom, but also the drawer containing his underwear seemed too far away. When he turned back around, Pixie jumped and pretended to inspect the bottle of Tylenol.

He sat down in the chair. “This looks amazing,” he said. “Thank you, Pixie.”

“It must suck to be away from home when you’re ill.”

He took a spoonful of the perfectly seasoned soup. It tasted incredible. “Yeah, it does, but if I get you as nursemaid, Pix, I’ll get sick anywhere.”

Pixie laughed and tapped out two Tylenol. “Take these when you’re done.”

The soup was exactly what he needed. He hurriedly ate it and watched as she walked over to the large doors to the private balcony attached to his suite. Pixie threw them wide open. “You need fresh air when you’re sick. Not this germ-infested recycled crapola.”

He finished the juice, but his eyes were starting to feel heavy again. With a snap, he cracked open the large water and swallowed the lineup of pills and multivitamins Pixie had set out for him. He wished he had the energy to tell her how much all of this meant. But his head was pounding, and the bed looked so f*cking tempting.

Dred used the furniture to help him toward the soft mattress and fell face-first into the pillow. He closed his eyes, feeling full, slightly dizzy, and content that Pixie was with him.

A sound on the bedside table brought his attention into focus. Pixie had lined up all the pills and water next to him.

“Take some more of these in about four hours. And try to drink some more water. I wrote my cell number on the notepad next to the phone. If you need more soup, let me know.”

He felt her fingers thread through his hair. It reminded him of something Ellen would do when he couldn’t sleep. Yet unlike Ellen and Maisey, whose jobs it was to care, Pixie didn’t need to be here.