Gin Fling: Bootleg Springs Book Five

by Score, Lucy

  The sweet, sexy man in my doorway thought I was getting my period.

  It made me laugh, and that made me suck in a sharp breath when my back spasmed.

  He was all the way inside the room now reaching for me. He laid a cool hand on my forehead and one on my back.

  “It’s nothing,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “You take meds every day on a schedule. Meds that you keep hidden in your room. You hold yourself like your back hurts all the time. And now you’re curled up on your bed in the middle of the night moaning in pain, Shelby. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Look, there isn’t anything anyone can do,” I said, sharper than I’d intended. “Don’t think you can dig into this and fix it.” That’s what he was: A fixer.

  “Talk to me,” he ordered.

  “I don’t want anyone to know,” I confessed, squeezing my eyes shut again.

  “Roommate confidentiality,” he said, his hands still on me. It was so different from the way he’d touched me earlier, still gentle but now almost clinical.

  I cursed my stupid body. He’d never look at me the same now.

  “I have a… condition,” I said, exhaling slowly when the spasm lessened.

  “Okay,” he said, waiting for more.

  “I was just diagnosed this spring, and it’s manageable and annoying, and I hate it, but I’m dealing with it, and it’s my body, so I don’t have to tell my whole family and have them worrying.”

  “Shelby.”

  “Ankylosing spondylitis.” I blurted the words out.

  It was the first time I’d ever said them out loud. And that was weird. It wasn’t like saying it made it more real. Or did it?

  “Bless you,” Jonah joked.

  “Har. Har. It’s a form of arthritis. Spinal arthritis. I could end up bent in half.” I joked, but the thought of it was still terrifying.

  “Arthritis. Inflammation,” he said.

  I nodded into my pillow and tried not to whimper like a big, dumb baby. I hadn’t had a flare since just prior to my diagnosis. I’d thought there was something very, very wrong. Now, at least I had a name for it, and I knew it wasn’t some kind of rare form of meningitis devouring my innards. Small comfort in the moment though. With Hot Roommate Jonah sitting on my bed looking at me at my sweaty, pained worst.

  He got up and walked out.

  “Great. Just great. Thanks a lot, stupid garbage arthritis,” I muttered into my pillow.

  “I can still hear you,” he called dryly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I heard the water running in the bathroom and then his quick stride on the stairs. True to his word, he returned a minute later.

  “Here. Take this,” he said. Grumpily, I opened my eyes. Jonah was standing before me. A glass of water in one hand, two caplets in the other.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Naproxen.” He dumped them in my hand and helped me into a seated position so I wouldn’t choke and die.

  “Thanks,” I said, slugging the water back. “You look mad.”

  He did. His jaw was tight, lips pursed.

  “I’m not mad,” he insisted.

  “Now which one of us is lying.”

  “I’m not mad,” he said, taking the glass of water from me. “I’m annoyed that you’re selfishly keeping this from everyone. What good is that doing anyone?”

  “I’m going to tell my family. I just want to get a handle on it first. Geez. Cut me some slack. This is my first flare since the rheumatologist put a name to it.”

  “Was this when you left town a few weeks ago?”

  “Yeah. I knew something wasn’t right, and I had to meet with my dissertation director anyway to make sure I was headed in the right direction with my research.”

  “It’s not right that you’re keeping people out of this part of your life. Now, get up,” he said.

  “Why? Everything hurts, and I’m whiny. I’m not going to be less whiny someplace else,” I warned him.

  “Up,” he said, gently tugging me to my feet. He guided me out of the room, and I limped across the hall to the bathroom.

  The tub was filling with hot water. “Sit,” he ordered, pushing me down on the toilet lid.

  I gaped at the tub. “You’re drawing me a bath?”

  He pulled a carton out from under the doll-sized vanity. Epsom salts. “Yes. You shared your situation with me. I’m helping take care of you. You got a problem with that?” He dumped the salts into the tub.

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Now, do you need help getting undressed?” he asked, testing the water temperature with his hand.

  “Nope,” I squeaked, clutching my shirt to my chest. I was still wearing the clothes I’d been in all day, too tired to change. His first glimpse of my naked body was not going to be helping me into a hot bath like an invalid. If he still wanted to move forward with a physical relationship, I would be draped in suitable lingerie, shaved, lotioned, and ready for action.

  “Call me if you need help getting out,” he said and shut the door with a decisive click.

  I would most certainly not need help getting my wet, ouchy body out of the tub. “Thank you,” I called weakly.

  Alone and embarrassed, I stripped and eased my way into the water, sliding in up to my neck. God bless Scarlett and her deep tubs. It soothed instantly, and I decided to spend the night submerged if it meant feeling degrees better.

  Then I remembered every celebrity bathtub death and pushed myself a little higher out of the water.

  I heard Jonah on the stairs again, the bathroom door opened a crack, and I made a move to cover myself. But he merely dropped shorts and a tank top through the opening and then shut the door again.

  I sighed and leaned back again.

  My secret was out. I had a rare-ish disease that, if left unmanaged, would turn my spine into a question mark. It caused back, muscle, and joint pain. Fatigue. And, on occasion, not very attractive skin reactions and eye irritation. Now, the ball was in Jonah’s court. Would he still want to roll around naked with me? I didn’t think the odds looked good.

  Pouting in the tub long enough to wrinkle like a raisin, I did feel marginally better. At least physically. I made a note to make warm baths a part of my “screw you, inconvenient disease” routine. Carefully, I climbed out of the tub, dried off as best I could, and pulled on the fresh clothes. I opened the door a crack. There was no sign of Jonah.

  I stepped out into the hall and looked in my room. The pillows were arranged in a weird configuration. There was a fresh glass of water, two hot pads, and a portable fan.

  “Get in,” Jonah said, appearing in my doorway and gesturing toward the bed.

  “You don’t have to tuck me in. I’m not four.”

  “You’re acting like it,” he reminded me, reaching out to hook a finger over my protruding lower lip.

  “Hey. I’m the one with the incurable disease here. Doesn’t that earn me some slack?”

  He sighed. “Please get in bed.”

  Too tired to argue, I obliged.

  Then got less tired and a lot more defensive when he leaned over me.

  “Do not even think that you’re going to give me a pity kiss,” I said, slapping a hand to his chest.

  To my humiliation and physical relief, he moved the first heating pad so it was under my shoulders and then tucked the second one under my low back. He arranged the extra pillows so that my knees were open to the sides, supported in a pose I recognized from yoga class.

  “Oh, that’s kind of nice,” I murmured.

  “It’s no pity kiss,” he quipped, but I could tell he was still annoyed.

  “Remind me to talk to you tomorrow about why you’re exponentially madder than you should be, ‘kay?” I yawned.

  He angled the fan toward me and pulled the blanket up, the slightest of smiles on his perfect lips.

  “Goodnight, Shelby.”

  I kissed my hopes for a smoldery summer fling with my handsome roommate goodbye. />
  19

  Jonah

  “I just have to put my contacts in and find a clean sports bra. Then I’ll be ready to run,” Shelby promised with a yawn from the top of the stairs. She was still in the clothes I’d laid out for her last night, her hair in a messy tangle on her head. And her glasses were crooked. She looked tired but less pained.

  I shook my head. “We’re not running today, Shelby,” I told her as I laced up my shoes.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” she complained. “Now you’re going to be all ‘You can’t compete in a triathlon. You’re too feeble and pathetic to do anything athletic.’” Her baritone impression of me was mildly offensive.

  “Shelby—”

  “No! I’ll continue my training even if you refuse to help me. I’m doing this with or without your permission.” She actually stomped her foot.

  “Are you done?” I asked mildly.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “We’re not running today. We’re going to breakfast.”

  She looked at me with suspicion. “You still want to hang out with me?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re still willing to train me?”

  “Yes. And now that I know more about your health, I can do a better job of coaching you, you stubborn, secretive pain in my ass.”

  The insult seemed to have the opposite intended effect. She looked downright happy. “Okay! Let me find a regular bra, and I’ll be right down.”

  “Maybe run a brush through this?” I suggested waving a hand over my own head.

  “Don’t be silly. Your hair always looks great.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

  * * *

  We decided on Moonshine Diner for our breakfast and chat. I had a lot of things I wanted to say to her. But I’d wait until we had some coffee and food first.

  I took the menu from her when she slid into the booth across from me. Shelby was moving a little gingerly but leaps and bounds better than last night.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked her.

  “Fine. Can I have my menu?” she asked, stretching her arms across the table.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Mornin’ Jonah. Mornin’ Shelby,” Clarabell greeted us with a smile and a pot of coffee. “Interest y’all in some caffeine?”

  “Yes, please,” Shelby said, offering up her mug.

  “Thanks, Clarabell,” I said as she filled mine.

  “Shelby? The usual?” she asked.

  “I’ll have the pancake stack—”

  I cut Shelby off. “We’ll both have veggie omelets with cheese and a side of fruit.”

  Clarabell’s red, red eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. “Is that so?”

  Shelby wrinkled her nose but nodded reluctantly.

  “You haven’t kidnapped this nice girl, and she’s sending me an SOS?” Clarabell asked me.

  I grinned.

  “Whatever Jonah here says,” Shelby said with zero enthusiasm.

  “Comin’ right up,” Clarabell promised and disappeared with her coffee pot.

  “Veggie omelets? Fruit?” she scoffed at me.

  “Your diet is horrendous. I’m saying it as your trainer and your friend. With your condition—”

  “Lower your voice. Fifty percent of the people in here are just waiting for some tasty niblet of gossip,” she hissed.

  “Fine,” I said, leaning in. “Diet is one of the most important components of managing your condition. Which, judging by the look of disgust on your face, is something your doctor has already explained to you.”

  “My rheumatologist may have mentioned something about nutrition,” she grumbled.

  “And?” I pressed.

  “And I didn’t hear what she was saying since I was too busy inhaling a bag of pork rinds on the exam table.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was joking.

  “Oh, come on.” Shelby rolled her eyes. “I’m kidding. It was a six-pack of Slim Jims and a carton of chocolate milk.”

  I didn’t want to smile, but I felt one working its way up.

  “There’s the smile,” she said, pointing at my face. “Now, let’s talk about why you’re having breakfast with me and not—as they say ’round these parts—‘your mama’?”

  “We’re talking about you right now,” I reminded her. “And you’re valiantly trying to use your adorably weird sense of humor to deflect.”

  She leaned back against the booth. “You’re trying to turn this into a professional relationship, aren’t you? We have a kiss that knocks my socks off, and then you find out I have a little bit of arthritis, and it’s all business now,” she complained.

  She delivered it like a joke, but I could hear the disappointment.

  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Shelby, there’s nothing professional about my feelings for you. But I’ve never slept with a client before.”

  “I’m not a client, and we haven’t slept together yet,” she pointed out.

  “I’m trying to explain this is new territory for me. I want to help you train. It’s my area of expertise. But I’m also attracted to you. I’m also a little surprised you haven’t analyzed the hell out of all this.”

  She gave a dainty shrug. “It’s harder to find perspective when it’s my stupid feelings of inadequacy.”

  “Why would you feel inadequate?” I asked, stretching an arm across the back of the booth.

  “I’m flawed,” she said with a small frown. “Duh.”

  Now I laughed. “Shelby, of course you’re flawed. We’re all flawed. Let me be clear, I have a bigger issue with you asking forty million questions to dissect something than I do with you having ankylosing spondylitis.”

  “You looked it up?” Surprised, she picked up her coffee and sipped.

  “I did. You got a problem with that?” I teased.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided,” she said primly.

  “Well, you think on it.”

  Clarabell returned, a steaming plate in each hand. “Enjoy, y’all.”

  Shelby stared down at her plate like it was fresh roadkill.

  “Back to your diet and nutrition,” I said, sliding the napkin-wrapped silverware in her direction. “We’re going to find healthy foods that you’ll like to eat. You don’t have to eat anything you hate.”

  “Good. Because I think I’m going to hate this.” She poked at the omelet with her fork.

  I pulled the containers out of the carrier on the table. “Let’s cut it into thirds. One with just salt and pepper. One with ketchup. And one with hot sauce,” I suggested.

  “Okay,” she said miserably.

  She was unbelievably cute. Her freckles were rioting after yesterday’s sun. She’d scooped her hair back in one of those knots women seemed to favor. Her bangs framed her glasses and those mournful, hazel eyes.

  I had the urge to order her a short stack of pancakes with a gallon of syrup just to see her smile.

  “What’s this?” she asked, spearing a piece of melon.

  “It’s what they make sangria out of.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered.

  * * *

  She liked grapes, pineapple, and honeydew. And she spit out the cantaloupe in her napkin. As for the omelet, Shelby surprised herself and didn’t hate it spiced up with hot sauce.

  “This isn’t awful,” she mused, taking another forkful.

  “I’m sure the cook will take that as a compliment,” I said wryly.

  “Coming from me, it’s high praise for anything other than chicken nuggets and applesauce.”

  I winced. “You eat like a picky toddler.”

  “Believe me, I know it. It’s embarrassing when Mom whips up some fabulous chicken parm from scratch for the family, and there I am with my nuggets and ranch dressing,” she said, cutting another bite of eggs.

  She put down her fork and pulled her phone out to snap a picture of her plate. “Speaking of Mom, I’m goi
ng to send her proof that my palate is expanding.”

  Her thumbs flew across the screen, and I tried to focus on my breakfast. Now that I’d kissed her, well, it was hard to not think about doing it again. And again.

  She’d responded to me like I was waking her up from a long sleep. Like I was something special. And I really liked that. But was I ready?

  “Okay,” she said, dropping her phone back on the table. “Let’s cover the following topics. One, do you still want to pursue a physical relationship with me? And two, how do you feel about your mom surprising you, and why aren’t you out to breakfast with her?”

  “Mom thing first,” I decided. “I’m thrilled she’s here. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until I saw her last night. As for why I’m having breakfast with you, Mom’s nursing a hangover. I’m giving her a grand tour of the town this afternoon when her eyes are less bloodshot and she’s done sweating Fireball.”

  Shelby nodded approvingly and ate another grape. “Go on.”

  “The physical relationship thing. I’m obviously attracted to you. You know that, don’t you?”

  She cocked her head, frowning. “I sense a ‘but’ approaching.”

  “But I don’t know if I’m ready to pursue anything. I’ve never been a fling kind of guy,” I confessed. I liked long-term relationships. Liked building a history with a woman. “However, I don’t know what the future holds. I wasn’t kidding about missing my mom. We’re close. And I don’t know if I really want to set up a life on the opposite side of the country from her.”

  She pursed her lips. “I don’t have room in my schedule for an actual relationship. This dissertation is basically haunting every waking moment, and then there’s the triathlon training and dealing with this diagnosis thing. And I don’t know where I’m going to be by the end of summer. Hopefully juggling well-paying job offers.”

  “Okay. Where does that leave us?” I asked.

  “I think I would be doing a disservice to myself and nerd girls everywhere if I didn’t try to enjoy a summer fling with my incredibly attractive roommate. Every woman needs a man she can remember fondly forever. I want you to be that for me.”