Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Today is different. Today I don’t want to focus on me. I don’t need attention in this moment. My only focus is making sure Flynn gets better even though the doctor’s insistence to get medical help echoes in my head like a Sunday morning church bell, the clanging and ringing a constant reminder that I may once again be making the wrong choice. Only this time, I’m not the one who will suffer if I’m wrong.
Early morning light filters into the room combining with the constant light from the suite’s hallway as he shifts in discomfort. He’s going to be sore as hell from sleeping on the couch, but I haven’t been able to rouse him enough to get him to the bed.
I have more than half a dozen alarms set on my phone, each one a reminder that I’m to medicate him or get him to sip fluids. I’ve grown accustomed in this short period of time that even if I’m dozing beside him in the chair, I wake moments before the alarm goes off. I have no idea how the protective behaviors set in so quickly.
I pause the alarm the second it begins, and this time Flynn actually flinches at the sound. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but he’s been damn near comatose for a day and a half.
“What the hell happened?” he groans without opening his eyes, his face turning away from the miniscule light in the room.
“How do you feel?” I whisper.
He hasn’t said much the times I’ve woken him.
“Like I’ve been hit by a tactical force team.”
I give him a weak smile even though he can’t see it with his eyes closed. Most people would say a bus or a wrecking ball, but it’s clear this man has lived a different life than most people. His experiences make for interesting analogies apparently.
“Sounds painful,” I muse, my hand running over his face to test his temperature. “You’re not as hot as you were.”
“Only because I’m sick.”
Rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling, I pull my hand away, enjoying the way he turns his head toward me in search of my touch.
“Don’t fret. You’ll be as hot as ever once you’re well.”
“Damn right,” he teases, but then another groan rumbles from his throat.
“What’s wrong?”
Feeling like a fool for not listening to the doctor, I take a step back to give him room.
“Don’t sit up,” I say as he grunts loudly while raising his upper body. “Let me help you.”
He seems resigned to do it anyway, so I offer assistance as best I can.
“Can’t help with this.”
It’s honestly an asshole thing to say because I’ve been here every damn second taking care of him.
“Need to piss.”
Oh. Yeah, I can’t really help with that.
“At least let me help you to the bathroom door.”
Even with the hunch of his back, I hiss under the weight of him as he leans on me once he’s standing. The man is solid muscle.
“I got it,” he insists, pulling away from me and crossing the room slowly on his own. He turns toward the room I’ve deemed mine and I don’t open my mouth to tell him differently.
Ignoring the bite of rejection, I take the opportunity to pull back the blankets on the bed. He’s not even close to a hundred percent, but I know the bed will be more comfortable for the rest of his recovery.
I’m standing in the doorway to the room when he reemerges.
“I need a shower, but—”
“You’ll end up drowning if you attempt that alone,” I finish, walking toward him just in case he needs me.
“Are you offering to help?” There’s a smile in his voice even though his face is pained from walking.
Heat fills my cheeks because his joke makes me think back to the way he reached for me when we first arrived, the way he called me baby. I know now that he was sick and probably delirious, but it still made tingles rush over my body.
“If you need help, I’ll help you.” There, that sounded very diplomatic. “I’ll even wash your back for you.”
There’s no way I’d survive seeing this man naked with soap bubbles drifting down his tanned skin, but I’m willing to throw myself on the sword if he really wants it.
“God, Remi,” he groans, finally making it to the bed and sitting down with a huff. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
Considering it a rhetorical question, I assist in lifting his legs and getting them under the blankets instead of teasing him. The man is sick, and I can’t seem to keep my mind out of the damn gutter. Besides, there’s very little chance he’s actually serious or would consider me in that sort of way. I’m delusional, but the first step is to recognize the problem, right?