by Kendall Ryan
This really is a ruthlessly contagious bug. I wonder if I should call Dominic and tell him . . . but he’s driving and I shouldn’t distress him any more than he is. I’ve only ever seen him frantic when it came to his daughters’ well-being. I decide that he can find out when he arrives later tonight.
“Hi, monkeys,” I say softly, approaching their beds. I know I’m not supposed to touch them, but they need a little comfort. I brush the sweaty curls from their faces and hold their hands.
“Where is Daddy?” Emilia asks, her eyes heavy with sleep.
“He’s on his way. I’m going to take care of you two for a little while before he gets here, okay?” I know I’m a poor substitute for their father, but I hope I can at least provide them some comfort.
“Okay,” Lacey whispers. “Can we play?”
I chuckle. “When you’re both feeling better, we can play all you want. But until then, we’ve got to rest, okay?”
“But I’m thirsty.” Lacey whines, squeezing my hand.
“You can have just a little bit of water. Not too much.”
For the next hour, I alternate between the girls, relying on the memory of my own mother taking care of Michael and me. I give them each a few sips of water, even though Lacey is eager to guzzle more. I want to make sure they can keep this down before I give them too much.
Inevitably, when they start to feel sick again, I race to the bathroom to get the sick buckets. I barely get back in time for Emilia to lose the little bit of water that was in her stomach. She’s so scared of throwing up that she shakes after every bout. I use a washcloth to wipe her mouth and then kiss her on the forehead, promising that it will all be over soon.
Then, when it’s Lacey’s turn to get sick, I try to help her through it, but she’s a little more resilient than Emilia. It honestly amazes me how chatty she still is. When her head isn’t in a bucket, she’s asking me questions.
“Are you and Daddy married?”
“No, we’re not married. We’re just good friends.” Well, that’s a very G-rated way of putting it. I’m not about to tell his kids that I have no idea how to define my relationship with Dominic.
“How come?”
“Because . . .”
Luckily, Emilia throws up again before I have to come up with an answer. I brush her hair out of her face and help her blow her nose.
“I want Daddy.” She cries, breaking down.
I know Dominic is still far away, at least three more hours by car. Knowing him, he’s probably speeding here as fast as he can, traffic laws be damned.
“Let’s wait for Daddy, okay?”
I gently lift Emilia from the bathroom floor and carry her across the hall. She’s so light . . . even lighter with nothing in her stomach. I lay her down on her bed, and then check on her sister. With a fresh washcloth, I wipe the sweat from their faces and pull the covers up to their chins.
It really is alarming how contagious stomach flu can be. Ever since I first touched the girls, I’ve felt off. My own stomach churns at the thought of eating anything, even though I’m starving.
Oh shit.
• • •
“Presley.”
When I wake up, I’m curled up on the floor at the foot of Lacey’s bed with my head resting on a stuffed teddy bear. I must have fallen asleep after the girls did. The room spins, so I screw my eyes shut again.
Dominic stands over me and places a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“The girls,” I mumble.
“They’re fast asleep,” he says, looking over at their beds.
I sit up to see for myself, regretting it immediately. A rush of vomit rises, and when a bucket suddenly appears in my face, I let loose.
God. I haven’t thrown up since the first time I drank in college. I’d forgotten how awful the sensation is. Like being punched in the gut and drowned at the same time.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Dom disappears and comes back in seconds with a wet cloth and a glass of cold water. He wipes my mouth just like I did for his daughters. His eyes are filled with turmoil, and his expression is stark. I stare at him, soaking up every second of this tender moment.
“Here, take a sip,” he says.
I take the glass from his hands and sip. The water slides down my throat with the promise to come right back up later. Yep, not doing that again.
After taking the glass out of my hands, he carefully lifts me from the floor and carries me toward his bedroom.
I shake my head. “Just let me stay with them. I already have it. I don’t want to infect your room too.”
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even pause in his strides. He just keeps carrying me down the hall until we reach the master bedroom.
He sets me down on the edge of his massive bed. “You’ll stay in here.”
“But what about the guest room?” I ask.
“You’ll stay in here,” he says again, more firmly this time.
I nod, feeling dizzy.
Dominic pauses, appraising me as I slump over the edge of the bed. “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”
When he glances at the jeans I’d quickly changed into before coming, I nod, realizing he’s right.
“Let me find something that might fit,” he says, already heading toward his massive walk-in closet.
After returning with a pair of cashmere sweatpants and a white cotton T-shirt, Dominic helps me remove my clothes—which is a good thing because my limbs feel so heavy that I doubt I could maneuver out of them on my own, and slides the soft cotton over my skin.
He turns his back while I unhook my bra and fish it out through the sleeve of the shirt. Then he gathers my clothes and takes them to the closet.
When he comes back to me, he holds a glass of water to my lips again. “A little more.”
I groan, but I know he’s right. I have to stay hydrated. I can’t act like a toddler when he has two actual toddlers sleeping in the other room. I drink some more, but the room flip-flops, and I sink back into the bed with a groan.
He sits down next to me, careful to put a little distance between us. I’m grateful for it. If he gets any closer, I’ll probably cling to him, and then there won’t be anyone left to take care of the sick people.
“It’s okay,” he says, reading my expression. “I juiced up with some vitamin C packs on the way here.”
“Yeah?” I ask weakly.
“Yeah. I’m going to be fine. I’m invincible.” He grins.
I feel like laughing, but I know the effort would likely make me vomit again. I’ve already done that once in front of the most attractive man I’ve ever met . . . I could do without a second round.
Surprising me, he lies down next to me. “Thank you for being here,” he says softly in my ear.
I can’t bear to turn and look at him for fear of losing any more of my goddamn breakfast in his beautiful face. “Some help I’ve been,” I groan.
I should have listened to Fran and not touched the girls. But the looks on their faces when I first arrived . . . they were so scared and tired. I had to show them that they would be taken care of.
“They’re fast asleep and their fevers have broken. You’ve been more than helpful,” he murmurs.
I can feel his gaze glued to my face. I’m flushed and damp with sweat, but not in the sexy fuck me kind of way. I don’t feel self-conscious, though. I feel safe.
“I should thank you for being here,” I mutter, my eyes sinking closed.
“You’re welcome.”
Was that a kiss I felt on my temple?
Dom, you can’t tell me not to fall in love with you and then be like . . . this. You can’t expect me not to feel anything for the man who has given me the world, from a ridiculous salary when I’m at my best, to tiny sips of water when I’m at my worst.
You can’t expect that, because I’m already in love . . .
With a man who isn’
t capable of returning my feelings.
Chapter Seventeen
Dominic
I’m woken up by two tiny, adorable heathens climbing on me and demanding pancakes. Part of me wants to be annoyed, wants to roll over and keep sleeping, or maybe chastise them for waking me up by climbing on me. Instead, there’s a smile on my lips even before my eyes open.
Presley isn’t far behind them, her hair wet from the shower, looking so much better than she did yesterday. When I ask how she feels, she admits she’s starving too.
Surprised, but grateful to see them all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again, I cook up a full breakfast, pour orange juice, and brew coffee. My three former “patients” wolf down their breakfast like they haven’t eaten in days. I enjoy mine at a much more leisurely pace, but I’m sympathetic; a diet of broth, crackers, and bananas is hardly satisfying. I’m thankful it’s Saturday and I don’t have to rush off to the office once they’re finally feeling better.
Now they’re watching TV while I rinse our cups and syrup-smeared plates and load them into the dishwasher. Shutting its door, I ask Presley, “Want more coffee while I’m up? There’s at least a cup left in the pot.”
“Yes, please,” she says emphatically. “I’ve missed it.”
“After one single caffeine-free day? I’m pretty sure based on those parameters alone, that makes you an addict,” I tease, bringing the pot to her proffered mug.
“Hey, it’s no fun dealing with a wicked withdrawal headache on top of the flu.” She takes a long sip with a happy sigh. “Ah . . . my hero. Thank you.”
I’m not sure what’s changed between us, but it’s obvious something has. When I saw her sick and sleeping on the floor at the foot of Lacey’s bed, something inside me shifted. And I can feel it now too. We’re more comfortable together, more in sync than we have been. What started as a chemical thing—a lustful attraction—has given way to more, despite all my best efforts.
“I’m bored,” Lacey says with a pout.
“Outside?” Emilia asks excitedly.
I don’t blame them for being restless after a day stuck in bed. “Sure, let’s go out and do something fun. How’s the park sound?” It’s not exactly an adventure, but I’m reluctant to go too far in case they aren’t totally recovered.
When girls cheer, Presley laughs. “Looks like it’s unanimous.”
We pack a picnic lunch and get everyone dressed. “How about we take some stuff to feed the ducks too?” I suggest. As expected, I’m met with enthusiastic shouts, so I grab the rest of the loaf we used to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“No, bread is bad for ducks,” Presley says. “I read somewhere that it’s like junk food—it doesn’t have the right nutrients—and it makes the water dirty.”
I blink. “Really? I had no idea. What foods are good?”
“Um, let me check.” She taps at her phone for a minute before saying, “Whole grains, veggies, stuff like that.”
“Always doing research, even on your days off,” I say, amused.
She shrugs with a self-deprecating chuckle. “What can I say? Ducks are important.”
Emilia nods forcefully, and Lacey says, “Don’t hurt ducks.”
“You’re all absolutely right. We should never hurt animals, and that includes giving them bad food,” I tell them both before turning back to Presley. “I wasn’t making fun of you—well, maybe I was, but that habit is also one of the things I lo—” I swallow the forbidden L-word just in time. “One of your many impressive qualities.”
The hell was that? I sound like I’m giving an employee performance review.
Trying to get back to the sweet spot between dangerously intimate and bizarrely stiff, I say, “You seem to know at least a little bit about everything, and you always put in the effort to double-check and be totally sure of the facts.”
“Oh . . . thank you.” She gazes up at me, and her confused look makes something inside my chest ache.
Way to be an asshole, Dom, when she’s here helping you.
I take a deep breath and try to clear my head. Having her so close, here in my home, helping with my daughters, is seriously messing with me—although the last thing I want to do is send her away.
After some rummaging through the fridge and pantry, we assemble a mixed bag of oats, corn, peas, and lettuce. Then we head out on the short walk to the park, Presley holding Lacey’s hand and me holding Emilia’s.
At the park, we spread our blanket at the top of a grassy hill and set out our picnic. My antsy girls want to run off right away to feed the ducks, but I say, “Eat your lunch first, then you can go play.” They inhale their PB&J sandwiches as fast as they can before scampering downhill toward the pond.
“They sure have a lot of energy. If I didn’t know better, I’d have no idea they were lying in bed barfing all day yesterday.” I blow out a relieved sigh. “I’m glad you all recovered so fast. Guess I should have believed Francine when she said it would only last twenty-four hours.”
“It’s still not fair that you never caught it at all,” Presley says.
“My deepest apologies. Next time, I promise I’ll get sick as a dog and you can spend a whole weekend bringing me tea and soup and cleaning up my vomit.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.” She playfully grabs my bicep and gives it a squeeze, then looks self-conscious. “Sorry, I didn’t think. We shouldn’t be doing stuff like that in public.”
“It’s all right.” I can’t bring myself to get too worked up about it. Warmed by the sun, listening to the trees rustle in the breeze and my daughters’ giggles . . . I’m too relaxed to really be bothered by anything. I reach out to squeeze Presley just to prove how okay it is.
She lets her head rest on my shoulder, so I leave my arm draped around her. Together, we watch my girls play.
Lacey chucks as much food as her little hands can hold into the pond, drawing an army of gabbling waterfowl. Emilia takes a different approach, trying to tempt the ducks closer by holding out a small amount or dropping it at her feet. Whenever one approaches, she squeals in delight, startling it away, but it always returns.
When the sun begins to sink, I call to the girls, “Time to go home!”
“Awww,” they whine.
“The ducks will still be here tomorrow. Besides, aren’t you getting hungry?”
They look at each other, then reluctantly nod and walk over.
Back at the apartment, I put on cartoons to keep the little ones out from underfoot while we cook dinner. I check the pantry. We don’t have a ton of options, since I’ve been too busy nursemaiding three people to shop.
Presley, peeking over my shoulder, asks me, “What are we going to make? I’m not a super-experienced cook . . .”
“Neither am I. They can be picky sometimes, but for the most part, they’re good eaters.” I’m still rooting around in the cabinets.
“Hmm . . . when Dad was working late, I used to make cheesy rice for me and Michael.”
“That sounds promising. How do you make it?”
“It’s mostly self-explanatory—boil a bunch of rice, dump in cheese and salted butter and whatever random veggies we had on hand, and stir it up.” She checks the freezer. “Corn and broccoli will work great. And we can set some rice aside for rice pudding.”
I make an uncertain noise. “They’re not the biggest fans of broccoli.”
“Covering it in cheese might change their opinion.”
I shrug. “Fair enough. Let’s do it.”
I’ve never cooked as a team before, but it turns out to be surprisingly effortless. I babysit the two saucepans of rice while Presley microwaves the vegetables and preps the other ingredients so I can add them at the right times. We’re a well-oiled machine, humming along at peak efficiency, moving around the kitchen without even bumping into each other.
In less than half an hour, we’re finished. Still working in perfect tandem, we put the full plates on the table, help the girls into their booster seats, a
nd clean up drips and messy faces between taking bites of our own dinners.
When dessert has disappeared and I start to see droopy eyelids, I say, “Uh-oh, somebody looks sleepy.”
“Am not,” Lacey tries to insist before an enormous yawn cuts her off.
Emilia gives us her most potent puppy-dog look. “One more TV? Pleeease?”
I get up to clear the dishes. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
“Yes, you do,” both girls chorus.
“Oh no, they’ve become too smart. We’re doomed.” I throw up my hands with a mock look of terror.
Presley giggles. “What’s their usual bedtime routine? I was too wiped out to keep track of what you were doing while I was sick.”
I tick off items on my fingers. “Bath, change into jammies, braid their hair, tuck them in, read them a story.”
“I haven’t braided anyone’s hair since middle school,” Presley says with a small smile.
“Okay, girls, you know the drill.” I clap my hands. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
We corral them toward the bathroom with only a minimal amount of grumbling. Presley fetches washcloths and fills the tub with warm water while I undress the girls, and we share the task of brushing out their hair. Naturally, as soon as they get their hands on the bath toys, all complaints cease. Lacey is so intent on her windup swimming penguin that she barely notices anything I’m doing, even wiping her face. Presley washes Emilia while she scribbles all over the tub’s walls with bath crayons.
In no time at all, we’re at the last phase. “Close face,” I say.
The two of them giggle and scrunch their faces as tight as possible. I quickly shampoo and rinse Lacey’s hair. After a moment of confusion, Presley does the same with Emilia.
I check the clock. Divide and conquer, indeed. With the two of us working together, a task that normally takes half an hour is done in under ten minutes.
In their bedroom, we wrestle them into pajamas, careful to get their favorite colors right—green for Emilia, pink for Lacey. Presley sits on the bed with Emilia between her knees, but when I sit behind Lacey, she frowns.
