Surprise Partners

by Gina Wilkins

  “You’d better get inside, then. It’s good to see you, Lydia.”

  He wasn’t smiling when he said it. Nor was she when she answered. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  She turned and hurried to her apartment before she revealed just how good it felt to see him after so many days of thinking about him.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Scott that evening and she woke up thinking about him Saturday morning. She kept picturing the way he’d looked in the parking lot, his skin pale, his eyes overly bright, his voice hoarse. He had definitely been ill, even if his male pride kept him from admitting it. She wondered if he was feeling better this morning. She wondered if he would call anyone if he wasn’t.

  She debated calling him. She actually put her hand on the phone several times, then talked herself out of it each time. Until finally she couldn’t stand it any longer and dialed his number before she could change her mind again. She hardly recognized his voice when he answered.

  “You’re feeling worse, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Well…”

  “Have you taken anything for your symptoms? Do you have any fruit juice?”

  “No, I…” He paused as if it hurt him to talk. “I feel pretty rotten,” he finally admitted.

  “I’m coming down to check on you. Unless you’d rather I call your sister?”

  “No!” he croaked. “For God’s sake, don’t call Heather.”

  “Then I’ll come down. Do you have any juice? Any over-the-counter medications?”

  “I…uh…not sure.”

  “Never mind. Just unlock the door for me. I’ll be there shortly.”

  She hung up with a shake of her head, thinking that she’d never met a man who handled illness well no matter how capable he might be in every other aspect of his life.

  Scott looked miserable when he opened his door wearing only a pair of drawstring-waist khaki shorts. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks flushed with fever, his jaw unshaven, his hair disheveled. So why did she still find him so disconcertingly attractive?

  She hid the familiar reaction to him behind a brusque tone as she stepped past him, keeping her eyes averted from his bare chest. The brief glance she’d managed had been enough to assure her that he’d been hiding a spectacular body beneath his clothes.

  “I brought a few things I thought you might need,” she said, indicating the shopping bag she was carrying. “Have you taken anything for your fever?”

  “No. How do you know I even have a fever?”

  “I can tell by looking at you.” To confirm her assessment, she laid a hand against his whisker-rough cheek. “Oh, yes, you definitely have a fever. And you’re swaying on your feet. Go back to bed, Scott. I’ll bring you some juice and medicine. Do you have any symptoms other than the fever and sore throat?”

  “My head hurts. And I can’t breathe through my nose,” he complained. “But I’m not sick.”

  “Of course not,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “But you should still go back to bed.”

  It was a measure of exactly how badly he did feel that he went without further argument, his steps unsteady.

  Shaking her head again, Lydia carried her bag of supplies into the kitchen. Scott apparently had not eaten anything that morning. There were no dirty dishes, only a couple of used drinking glasses. She rinsed them and placed them in the empty dishwasher, then assembled a tray with a glass of orange juice, a pastry she’d brought with her and two acetaminophen tablets.

  Scott was lying facedown on his bed on top of the covers, as if he’d barely managed to make it that far before collapsing. Setting the tray on the nightstand, she reached out to help him get settled more comfortably on his back against the pillows. It took all the objectivity she could muster to keep her thoughts away from how good his warm skin felt beneath her hands, how intimate this situation was, just the two of them alone in his bedroom.

  He sneezed loudly, drawing her out of her daydreaming.

  “Take these,” she said, holding the tablets to his lips along with the glass of juice. As cooperative as a child, Scott swallowed the tablets with some difficulty, groaning when his sore throat protested. “Try to drink the rest of the juice,” she urged him, steadying the glass for him. “You need to keep up your strength. Do you think you can eat a little something?”

  “Not hungry,” he said, but he managed to finish most of the juice.

  “Do you have a thermometer?”

  “No. I never get sick.”

  He should have figured out by now that the power of positive thinking didn’t always work. He could deny it as much as he wanted, but he was still sick.

  “Maybe you’re just tired,” she said to placate him. “Get some sleep, Scott. I’ll check on you later.”

  “No, I have things to do. I need to…” His eyes closed. A minute later, he was asleep.

  Lydia hovered beside the bed for a few minutes, watching him with a worried frown. She wondered if he had any appointments she should cancel for him. If there was anyone she should call. He’d seemed very opposed to her calling his sister, but was there anyone else?

  Seeing how soundly he was sleeping, she decided not to disturb him to ask. The world could get along without Scott Pearson for one Saturday morning, she thought. He needed to rest.

  Scott had no idea what time it was when he surfaced. He had to almost pry his eyes open, and his vision was blurry when he did. His head pounded and his mouth was cottony. Every inch of his body ached.

  Maybe he would just go back to sleep, he thought, closing his eyes again. Then forced them back open when a hazy memory surfaced in his fever-dulled mind. Had Lydia actually been in his bedroom earlier? Had she tucked him into bed and given him orange juice and pills? Or had he only been dreaming?

  He looked around the bedroom but saw no evidence of her. His apartment was quiet. If she had been there, she was gone now.

  He was so thirsty. And his head felt as if it might explode at any minute. Maybe some more juice and medicine would help. Groaning, he rolled out of bed, feeling as if he’d aged a couple of decades while he slept. The floor seemed to shift beneath his bare feet when he stood. He swayed, then clutched the dresser to steady himself.

  He could do this, he told himself, focusing grimly on the bedroom doorway—which seemed to be moving farther away from him even as he stared at it. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other….

  He lurched forward, bruising his hip on the corner of the dresser, bumping his shoulder against the door-jamb. But he made it into the hallway, where he propped one hand against the wall and walked slowly to the living room.

  He paused in the doorway, staring at the couch, where Lydia sat with a notebook computer open in her lap and several neat piles of papers stacked around her. Her sister’s painting, which had been delivered only a few days earlier, hung on the wall behind her. Scott had thought the painting added elegance to his living room. But that had been before he’d seen Lydia here and understood what true beauty was.

  She looked up, her gaze locking with his, then set the computer aside and rose quickly to her feet. “What are you doing out of bed?” she scolded, hurrying toward him. “You look as though you’re about to fall flat on your face.”

  “You’re here,” he said stupidly.

  “I didn’t want to leave you alone. Do you feel any better?”

  Holding himself upright through sheer force of will, he lifted one shoulder. “I’m fine.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re a liar.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, feeling sheepish. “I feel lousy.”

  “I thought so.” She took his arm. “Come on. Let’s get you back into bed.”

  “If you only knew how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” he murmured with a weak attempt at humor.

  “Behave yourself. You’re in no condition to be making passes.”

  He allowed her to help him lower himself to the bed. “You’re beautiful when
you’re bossy.”

  “Be quiet and lie down. Where were you going just now?”

  He settled gratefully back against the pillows, trying to hide his shakiness. “The kitchen.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No. Thirsty. And my head’s killing me.”

  “I’ll get you something. Don’t move until I come back.”

  That sounded like a very good idea to him since every movement set off another round of explosions in his head. He closed his eyes and lay very still.

  Maybe he drifted off again. It seemed that no time at all had passed before she was back, holding a pill to his lips. “Can you swallow this?” she asked, her voice gentle.

  The small tablet felt like a boulder when it passed through his sore throat, but he managed to wash it down with a few sips of juice. And then he swallowed the second pill she gave him, finishing the juice afterward.

  “I called my doctor,” Lydia told him, setting the empty glass on the nightstand. “She said you probably have the flu. Apparently, there’s a lot of it going around. She said you should rest, monitor your fever, drink plenty of fluids and treat your symptoms with over-the-counter medications. If you become significantly worse, she suggested you contact your own doctor, but you’ll probably just have to suffer through it. She said you would feel better in a week or so.”

  “A week?” He shook his head, then pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples. “I can’t be sick for a week. I don’t have time.”

  “I’m not sure it’s up to you at this point,” she answered with sympathetic humor. “Face it, Scott. You’re sick.”

  He groaned and dropped his head back into the pillows. “Damn.”

  “Do you need me to make any calls for you? Are you sure you don’t want me to call your sister?”

  He nearly shuddered. “Please, no. I adore my sister, Lydia, but I can’t deal with her when I’m flat on my back.”

  “Anyone else, then?”

  “No. I don’t have any firm obligations until Monday morning. I’m sure I’ll be up and around by then.”

  “We’ll see.” He noted that she didn’t sound so confident. “In the meantime,” she went on, “try to get some more rest. It’s the best thing for you. When you wake up again, I’ll have some soup or broth ready for you. Maybe you’ll be hungry then.”

  “Thanks.” The thought of food still didn’t appeal to him, but maybe it would later. “Lydia?”

  With one last pat to his pillow, she straightened. “Yes?”

  “Don’t you have other things you should be doing?”

  “Nothing I can’t do here,” she assured him. “Actually, this is giving me a chance to get a lot done and still keep an eye on you.”

  “You’re being very kind.”

  She brushed a limp strand of hair away from his damp forehead. “This is what friends do, Scott. They help each other.”

  He closed his eyes, deciding to think about that later. For some reason, his brain didn’t seem to be working right. He only knew that it felt damn good to have Lydia’s cool hand stroking his forehead as he drifted off to sleep.

  Scott’s phone rang several times during the afternoon. Lydia turned down the ringer and let his machine pick up. She made a couple of trips up to her own apartment to check messages and retrieve things she needed, but she didn’t stay away very long. She didn’t like leaving Scott alone when he was so sick.

  Twice she tiptoed into his bedroom to check on him. He slept soundly, a faint crease between his eyebrows indicating that even in sleep he was uncomfortable. She lingered by his bed a bit longer than absolutely necessary. She wasn’t really ogling his bare chest, she assured herself, though she couldn’t help but notice how good he looked against his sheets. She just wanted to make sure he was okay.

  Yeah, right, she thought, forcing herself to walk away. Even she didn’t believe that one.

  She was able to accomplish quite a lot of work that day, uninterrupted since no one knew where she was. Scott woke several times and seemed to feel worse as the day passed. The doctor had warned her that he would feel worse before he got better, so she was prepared even though she felt sorry for him. He was thoroughly frustrated by his inability to shake off his illness and get right back to his usual routines.

  He seemed to take her presence almost for granted, meekly submitting to her instructions when she forced medicines and liquids into him. She thought his acquiescence was probably a measure of how sick he was. He didn’t even feel well enough to question her right to walk into his apartment and take over.

  The only time he balked was when she tried to get him to eat. Just the thought of food made him nauseous, he insisted. He would take only juice. As long as he was drinking liquids, she was satisfied.

  It was after 6:00 p.m. before he woke enough for a coherent conversation again. She had just given him a fever reducer and a glass of cool water. His eyes were unusually bright, she noted, and there were dark patches of color high on his cheeks. The thermometer she’d brought down from her apartment read 102. She was sure he felt truly awful. “Would you like a cool cloth for your head?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  He seemed so determined to insist that he was okay. She nodded and sat on the very edge of the bed. “I’m glad to hear that. Want to go out for a run?”

  He gave her a weak smile. “Okay, maybe I’m not that fine.”

  “I didn’t think so. Why is it so hard for you to admit that you’re sick?”

  “I don’t know.” He grimaced. “I guess I’m just used to being the one who takes care of everyone else, not the one who needs to be taken care of.”

  “You must have been the man of your family for a long time,” she guessed.

  “My father died in an accident when Heather and I were twelve. Mom was one of those dependent, sort of clingy types who never even paid a bill or changed a lightbulb for herself before she was widowed. I kind of got in the habit of taking care of things for her while she was alive.”

  “And you’ve watched out for your sister ever since your mother died, even though she considers herself the older sibling.”

  “Heather takes care of herself on the whole.”

  Lydia was sure Heather did take care of herself physically, but from what she had observed, Scott gave his sister a lot of emotional support. It was no wonder he hated being dependent even for this short time and in such a small way. He had no prior experience at it.

  Scott cleared his throat, trying to ease some of the hoarseness. “Tell me about your family, Lydia.”

  She wondered why he asked. “What about them?”

  He shifted against the pillow, the movement restless. “Talking helps me keep my mind off my aches and pains. Unless you have other things you need to do?”

  If conversation made him feel better, she would certainly chat with him for a while. But she wasn’t sure how to begin. “My father was an attorney.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You never mentioned that before.”

  “He died when I was three. I don’t even remember him.”

  “Does Larissa’s antipathy toward attorneys have anything to do with your father?”

  “Probably. He died while driving drunk with his mistress.”

  Scott winced. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, wondering why she’d been quite so candid. “As I said, I don’t even remember him. And I’ve always thought Larissa was wrong to hold our father’s behavior against an entire profession.”

  “What was your mother like?”

  “The opposite of yours, apparently. She was the one who worked to put her husband through school and helped him establish his career rather than allow herself to be cared for. Instead of encouraging us to be dependent on men, she constantly warned us not to let men hold us back from what we really wanted to do. She made a lot of personal sacrifices for her marriage, and my father’s behavior didn’t exactly reward her for what she gave up for him.”

  Scott nodded t
houghtfully, his bleary eyes focused on Lydia’s face. “And because of your parents’ mistakes, you’ve decided to remain single?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m not opposed to marriage or children, but I’ve concentrated first on getting my career established. I’ve always believed a woman should be able to support herself. I happened to pursue a career that takes several years to train for.”

  “I have friends—men and women—who married young and still pursued demanding careers. Doctors, attorneys, educators—people who found spouses who supported them in their goals rather than holding them back.”

  “I’m sure there are many couples like that,” she agreed. “However, the few men I’ve been involved with during the past few years became very impatient when my busy schedule conflicted with their interests.”

  “Sounds to me,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy again, “as if you’ve dated the wrong men.”

  “Obviously.” She tucked the bedcovers more snugly around him. “And have you stayed single because you didn’t want a dependent woman like your mother—or because you do?”

  His faint smile was lopsided. “I don’t think I know. Clingy, dependent women don’t interest me. And yet, when I fell head over heels while I was in law school, I was crushed when the woman I loved chose her career over me. She wanted to be a network news anchor—and she decided she needed to be completely unattached to get there. Since then, it seemed easier not to put anyone in the position of having to choose.”

  She thought of the relationship he’d apparently had with Paula—no commitment, no expectations, no deep feelings to be crushed when it ended. She could understand the attraction in such a relationship, but she wasn’t sure she could stay objective enough to make it work. She had never been able to separate physical from emotional intimacy—she doubted that she would ever be able to do so with Scott.

  Even now, sitting at his bedside as he lay ill, she was flooded with feelings for him. Sympathy, certainly. A desire to alleviate his discomfort. If there was more, she didn’t want to analyze it just then.

  His eyes were almost closed now, his voice slurred. “Lydia?”

  “Yes?”