Contingency Plan

by Marie James

  “Let’s watch a movie,” I say, dragging my ass toward the sofa in the center of the suite.

  “We just watched two movies,” she reminds me, but I plop down on the couch gracelessly.

  “A comedy. I don’t want to have nightmares.”

  With my eyes in slits, I look up and see her biting that perfect bottom lip of hers, and although I love the sight of it, my body is just too wrung out to react. I pat the sofa right beside me. “Come on. Don’t make me go to bed scared.”

  She doesn’t answer, but I breathe a sigh of relief when she sits down on the far end of the sofa, picking up the remote to find something to watch. I don’t know what she chooses because my eyes flutter closed and I’m lost to the world before she can even turn the damn thing on.

  “Hey?”

  My eyes flutter open to Remington’s face mere inches from my own.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” Where the fuck did that come from?

  “You’re over here moaning in your sleep.”

  “Was I having a sex dream?” Who broke my brain-to-mouth filter?

  She tries and fails to hide her smile. “I don’t know, Flynn. Were you?”

  I try to reach my arms up to wrap around her waist, but they’re too heavy and the foot of distance between our bodies just seems insurmountable.

  “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m always hot, baby.” I shoot for a weak smile, but I’m sure it comes out as a cringe instead. What in the hell is wrong with me?

  “You have a fever. Do you feel bad?”

  “I’m fine,” I assure her, my eyes closing once more.

  When I open them a mere second later, I’ve somehow been positioned flat on my back on the sofa. It’s oddly comfortable. This hotel spared no expense on their furniture, that’s for sure.

  “The flu,” a stranger says from the other side of the room.

  I squint my eyes open, but the light in the room is overly bright and painful.

  “Not the flu,” I argue, drawing the other woman’s attention.

  A soft hand clasps mine, and although my head is throbbing, I manage a weak smile when I see Remington sitting beside me on the bed.

  “I never get sick, just tired.”

  “Just get some rest.” She smiles down at me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  If only I could trust her words, I could rest easy.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t know that I’ve ever struggled to get out of bed before. Yeah, I’ve been sore from long runs, but I don’t recall a single time I’ve told my body to move and found it unable to obey. It’s a dangerous situation to be in.

  “Did you drug me?” I whisper, looking into her green eyes and searching for the truth.

  A gentle smile plays on her lips as her delicate hand cups my jaw. “No, Flynn. I haven’t drugged you. You have the flu. Can you take oral meds or would it be easier for the doctor to put in an IV before she leaves?”

  “Oral,” I hiss. I don’t want no damn needles in my arms.

  “I’ll suggest again, Ms. Blair, that you let a trained professional handle Mr. Coleman’s recovery. There’s no need for you both to be sick.”

  “We’re lovers, Dr. Covington. If he’s sick, then I’ve already been exposed. Does his treatment require a medical professional?”

  Goddamn this woman is a good liar, but the possibility of having her that way makes me groan, or maybe it’s the pain at the base of my skull, either way, I’m uncomfortable.

  “Not particularly. If you’re able to get him to take his meds and keep him hydrated, then he should be fine. Call me again if his condition gets worse.”

  I hear shuffling, like the doctor is packing up, but I just can’t manage to face the bright light in the room. I don’t think I’d survive it.

  “I know it seems scary with him laid out like he is, but for some reason men just don’t handle illness with the same ease women do.”

  They both chuckle, and if she wasn’t telling the truth, I’d open my mouth and tell her so. I’m considering the wording of my Yelp Review on the good doctor when the hand on my face disappears. Frantically, I search for her.

  “Shh. I’m just going to walk the doctor out. I’ll be right back.”

  Her thumb skates over my lower lip, and Jesus, it’s a blessing that I’m too sick to do a damn thing about it. If she did that while I was in tip-top shape, I don’t know that I’d have the ability to keep my hands off of her.

  It’s either a second or years before her weight settles near me.

  “Drink this.” I sputter on cool liquid when she tilts a cup to my lips.

  I try to drink, but it feels impossible. I’ve never been this disoriented in my life, and I hate that she’s having to take care of me. I’m the protector, the one tasked with keeping her safe. She shouldn’t be here looking after me.

  “I need my phone,” I mutter. “Need to call someone in while I’m sick.”

  “I’m going to stay here with you.”

  “Hired to do a job,” I pant. “Need to bring in another team member.”

  Anyone but fucking Brooks. I can’t say the man would be as good at maintaining professional distance as I’ve done thus far.

  Just the thought of him showing up and keeping her occupied in the other room makes my fevered skin heat even more.

  “I’ll get your phone,” she whispers.

  I moan with delight when a cool cloth is pressed to my forehead, and it doesn’t take long before I’m drifting off again.

  Remington never brings me the damn phone, but she does wake me what seems like every fifteen seconds to force liquids and meds down my damn throat. At first, I growled at her, insisting that if she just left me the hell alone, I’d get better, but after the third time, I found it just easier to do what she wanted. The sooner I took a drink or swallowed some damn pills the quicker she would let me rest.

  Chapter 10

  Remington

  I’ll be the first to admit that watching someone sleep is creepy as hell, yet I’ve been doing it for hours. I’m attuned to every moan, every grunt of discomfort that escapes from Flynn’s fevered lips.

  I’m not the caregiving type. Not because I hate the idea of it but I’ve never been put in the position before.

  Although I’ve been on the receiving end of help—most often when I got too drunk or took too many drugs—but my friends always turned to someone else when they were in the same predicament. It’s like they knew I wasn’t capable, like they weren’t safe with me, and I blame my own life choices for being in the position in the first place. Then I was grateful. I didn’t want that responsibility thrust upon me because let’s face it, I was never in a place well enough to help anyone. I needed help myself.

  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 li
ght 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?

  His eyes flutter closed, eyelashes sexy enough for the runway brushing his cheeks, and like a fool, I stand there and keep watching him. When he winces again in pain, I remember the alarm went off and I didn’t give him meds. Before counting out the dose the doctor instructed me to give him, I use the temporal thermometer I had delivered.

  “You’re still running fever, but it’s not as high as it has been.”

  “How long?”

  “A hundred and one.”

  “No.” He shakes his head back and forth. “How long have I been out?”

  “It’s Friday morning.”

  His eyes snap open, the bright blue a shocking contrast to the pallor of his face.

  “Wednesday? Who did Blackbridge send?”

  I shake my head. “No one. You were too sick to call.”

  “You didn’t leave.”

  “I promised I’d stay.”

  His mouth opens as if he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead of focusing on his shock, I gather the meds and hold that and a bottle of Pedialyte for him to take.

  “That shit’s for babies,” he grumbles, but he takes the pills and a small sip of the offensive drink.

  “And here I thought you were acting like a badass,” I tease.

  Jesus. I nearly groan out loud when his tongue snakes out to catch a drop of the grape flavored liquid from his bottom lip. I replace the cap on the bottle and turn away. He’s feeling better, and that means I don’t have to stay right on top of him while he sleeps.

  “Stay,” he says, mustering enough strength to encircle my wrist before I can step away. “You look exhausted, too.”

  I’m dead tired, but admitting so seems like complaining, so I just nod, walking around the bed to climb in on the other side.

  I’m torn between being grateful the bed is a California king and hating the distance it forces between us. I chastise myself internally for making this more than it actually is. He’s made it perfectly clear he isn’t interested in me on any level, and yet I can’t seem to keep my head from fabricating scenarios where he desires me, if only for a little while.

  The bed shakes with a tremor big enough to force my eyes to him. Maybe he isn’t quite out of the woods yet.

  “You okay?”

  He nods, his eyes still closed, but I watch him struggle to bury deeper under the blankets.

  “Where are you going?” he asks when I toss my side of the blankets back.

  “Going to get another blanket.”

  “Just get closer to me. Body heat is best.”

  Lord, give me strength.

  “A blanket would—”

  “Remington,” he growls with chattering teeth, another shiver taking over his body. “Get back in the damn bed.”

  My heart is pounding in my chest as I do as he says. We can argue about his bossiness once he’s feeling better.

  “Happy?” I snip after climbing in and aligning the side of my body along his.

  “Not even close.” He clasps my hand on the opposite side and pulls me along as he rolls over.

  I hide a smile in the center of his back. The heat coming off of him should be stifling, but somehow, it’s exactly what I need.

  “Never took you for the little spoon kind of guy.”

  His body shakes with a laugh. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself as the big spoon, Remi.”

  I let my eyes close, pressing my nose between his shoulder blades. Taking long breaths, I just let myself enjoy this moment. It means absolutely nothing. I’m not delusional that I let myself believe this is the beginning of something, but I’ll soak up the quasi-affection for as long as he allows.

  “This is the best medicine,” he whispers, and his voice is so low, I’m left wondering if he doesn’t mean for me to hear or if he’s actually talking in his sleep. “You feel good.”

  I swallow a lump threatening to seize in my throat, but don’t make a sound. I can’t help the way my breathing ratchets up, but he’s still shivering a little so maybe he won’t notice. I resist tangling my legs with his, leaving them aligned with the crook of his. My body heats, and I know it’s much more than his own fever making me hot.

  Is it inappropriate? Is it creepy that I’m actually turned on right now? Because I am. I clench my teeth and tell myself to calm the hell down, but I know it’s a futile effort. I don’t think any warm-blooded woman could be calm lying flush against a man so damn hot.

  “I’m sorry you have such shitty parents.” His voice is even lower, and I feel the words emanating from his back rather than actually hear every syllable. “The mo
st beautiful woman I’ve ever seen deserves better. I like chasing you, but catching you is the most fun.”

  His voice trails off, and when his breathing evens out, disclosing that he’s finally fallen asleep, I allow myself the quick opportunity to hold him just a little tighter.

  ***

  Stifled by the heat surrounding me, I roll away, only to be met with the sensation of damp coolness down the front of my body.

  “Flynn,” I groan, turning my heavy head in his direction.

  Wetness dots his brow, his temples soaked with sweat.

  He groans, his eyes slitting open.

  “Your fever broke.”

  He nods, his face screwing up with the action. “I feel disgusting. Sorry I sweated on you.”

  I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of his concern, but I’m too damn tired to muster the energy to do so.

  He doesn’t reach for me when I climb out of the bed, but I feel his eyes track me to the bathroom. If he was in desperate need of a shower before, that has been multiplied by a thousand now. Not having the energy to offer him help, I wet a couple wash rags with warm water and make my way back out to him.

  A grin tugs up the corners of his mouth as he watches me walk back into the room. “A sponge bath?”

  A weak grin of my own is all I can manage.

  “Try not to get too turned on.” I say it as a joke, but his eyes dart away from me.

  He scoots, giving me room beside him on the bed, groaning in relief when I swipe the first washcloth over his forehead and down his face. His neck is next, and my mouth hangs open a little when he turns his head, revealing the corded muscle. His eyes are closed, teeth digging into his lower lip when he leans forward and pulls his shirt over the top of his head.

  He’s given his permission, but I still feel like I’m violating him in some way when the washcloth traces down his sternum. Abdominal muscles bunch and jump under the attention, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s to get more from me or if they’re trying to get away.

  I lick at my own lips, uncaring of the reason as I continue to wipe away the fever and salt from his skin. This entire situation is weird, a surreal reenactment of the dreams my subconscious self has had the last couple of days. It leaves me feeling dangerous and out of control, two things I’ve learned are triggers for bad behavior.