The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(12)
“Thank you,” he whispered, trying his hardest to fight the call of sleep. He didn’t want to miss the feeling of her fingers on his skin. Not for a second. “When are you going to let me take you out, Pix?’ he asked reaching for her.
And as sleep claimed him, he could swear she answered with something about George Clooney becoming president.
*
The Sound of Music on TCM for the win!
Pixie had planned her day off meticulously. There was a bedroom to clean, some sewing to do, and a whole lot of “doe, a deer” to sing along to. Dressed in black yoga capris and a white vest, she set about collecting the sewing supplies she’d need.
With the new sewing machine Trent and Cujo had bought her for Christmas, she flew through the new order. As Maria tore down the curtains to make the Von Trapp children matching clothes, Pixie crafted a dress for a six-year-old girl based on a sunflower. The yellow, gold, and brown fabrics she’d selected sparkled with sequins.
For here you are, standing there, loving me. Whether or not you should. Goddamn, Julie Andrews could sing in a way that sucked you in and held you. Pixie loved the moment when Maria and the Captain shared their feelings with each other. What would it be like to be so fiercely loved? Would she find her own Captain, or Fiyero, or any other musical hero?
And speaking of musical heroes. Dred had looked so sick when she left him in bed. She held up the skirt and fluffed out all the layers of brown and gold tulle. Hopefully he had everything he needed. After a momentary debate, she picked up her phone and typed out a quick message.
Feeling better?
Switching to the top of the dress, Pixie changed the sewing machine setting so she could begin smocking the yellow gingham fabric. Her foot had just touched the pedal when her phone pinged.
Hey gorgeous. Fever broke. Still in bed. Feel like I got run over by a Zamboni.
Not knowing what a Zamboni was, she could only assume it was painful. Maria was walking down the aisle now, and Pixie focused hard in an attempt to quell the growing need to go see him.
Where did you get that OJ and spinach?
From a juice place at Washington and 16th. 5 minutes walk.
She was such a bad person, making a sick person haul their ass out of bed for something she could do. It would take a half hour maybe to go pick it up for him. The dress was coming together way faster thanks to her new machine. And she’d seen The Sound of Music so many times, she could recite the script word for word.
Ignoring the small voice that told her it was a bad idea, Pixie turned off the television and grabbed her purse.
Twenty minutes later, she stood outside Dred’s suite at the Delano. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the door. She knocked and waited. When Dred didn’t answer, she pulled out her phone.
Knock knock :-)
She heard shuffling and the sound of the lock turning. The door opened, and Dred stood in the same pants he’d been wearing yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose red. And he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. She tried to stay focused on his eyes, but he had paint-roller abs, and tattoos, and that little trail of . . .
“You’re an angel, Pix.” He coughed loudly, and the sound of congestion rattled through his chest.
Pixie walked into the room and handed him the large Styrofoam cup of juice. “I should have got you more supplies yesterday.”
“No, this is beyond good,” he said huskily. Somehow it made him sound even sexier than ever. He sat down on the sofa and drank the juice, closing his eyes and groaning.
The bed was unmade, a pile of used tissues sat on the nightstand, the curtains were drawn, and the room smelled musty.
Pixie dropped the bags down on the coffee table. “I got another juice for later. Apple and cucumber. There’s a salad in there, and a bag of mixed nuts and seeds because they are packed with zinc, which is good for your immune system. Put them on the salad or eat them separately.”
She walked over to the balcony and pushed the curtains aside.
“Fuck. Pix. You trying to blind me? A bit of notice, gorgeous, please.”
Chuckling at Dred’s protest, she opened the balcony doors. “You get two days of being sick, then I’m calling man-flu. And you need a shower.”
“I guess I smell, huh? So much for creating a great impression.”
It warmed her a little that it mattered to him. “Yes, you do smell, but you need steam to loosen all that crap clogging up your lungs.”
“You’re like a walking medical almanac.”
“Go shower, Dred. I’ll tidy up.”
“Okay, I’ll go, but you leave the room alone, and be sitting right there when I come out,” he said, pointing to a chair on the balcony.
Pixie waited for the shower to start. She quickly remade the bed, cleaned up the mess, and opened more curtains. The door to the bathroom opened precisely as she threw out the last bag of garbage. Dred shook his head at her.
“You didn’t need to come here and clean up after my sorry ass.” His hair was wet, slicked back away from his face. Water dripped down his chest, little rivulets running over his pecs, which were crying out to be licked.
“I didn’t like the idea that you could have died and nobody would have known,” she teased.
Dred opened the wardrobe and Pixie held her breath. Would he drop the towel as he did the day before? She fiddled with the remote for the TV, pretended to look for a place to put it. Sadly, he wiggled shorts up under his towel, but then turned and winked at her. “Disappointed, gorgeous?”