Filtered water in the electric pot took a few minutes to boil—enough time to locate a mug. In the back of the cabinet, he felt his special cup, a textured mug he’d acquired from New Zealand when he’d done his first bungee jump.
Still waiting for the pot to whistle, he considered Stephanie’s text. In the two years since she’d started working, she’d never been ill enough to miss a day of work. Though Ellie had frequent health issues, Steph had a strong constitution and a stronger work ethic. If she hadn’t been so utterly honest, he’d have suspected she made up the stomach flu story to avoid working with him the next day.
The pot whistled, and he poured the hot water over the tea bag, using a thumb to feel when the cup was full. He set a timer, removing the tea bag after precisely three minutes. Satisfied that his nausea remedy was as perfect as possible, he made his way down the west wing corridor, around the corner, counting until he reached the tenth doorway on the right. A quick inspection of the Braille numbers on the door told him he’d reached the right suite. Afraid he would wake Ellie if he knocked on the door, he sent a text to Steph.
I’m in the hall outside your door. Have ginger tea.
A few seconds passed before Steph’s response came. Too sick to let you in. Told you not to come.
Have a master key. Can open door.
A short pause followed, then another text. No. Not dressed.
Doesn’t matter. I’m blind.
A minute passed, and he thought she might’ve fallen back asleep. Maybe he could let himself in and leave the ginger tea on the table. Then his phone vibrated with another message. Hugging toilet. Leave tea outside.
As he thought of her on the bathroom floor, suffering all alone, he sent a final text. Coming in. Be right there.
He ignored the phone, which vibrated angrily in his pocket, while he opened the door and slipped inside, carrying his magical ginger tea concoction. Uncertain which direction to go, he stopped to listen. He was soon rewarded for his efforts when he heard a coughing sound straight ahead. As he navigated slowly down the hallway, his white cane checking for obstacles, he strained his ears to locate her.
At last he came to the end of the hallway, where another series of coughs filtered through the closed door. He tucked his cane under his arm and tested the door handle. It swung open, and he stepped inside, noting the familiar sour odor of bile. Though he was particularly sensitive to smells, his concern for Steph outweighed his stomach’s response. A low groan came from his left.
“Why are you here?” she rasped.
“I’m going to take care of you.” He used a don’t-argue-with-me tone, though she sounded too weak to put up much of a fight, anyway.
Probing with his cane, he located the vanity counter, glad he’d chosen to make the layout of each guest suite identical. As he set the tea down, he heard gagging noises. He ached to make her feel better, hating his powerlessness.
“Do you have a cool, wet cloth for your face?” he asked.
“No,” she croaked. “Branson you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” he replied, as he probed the vanity cabinet. “This is empty. Where are your washcloths?”
“In the laundry,” she replied. “It’s okay. I don’t need a rag.”
“Yes, you do.” He ripped his clean T-shirt off, wetting it in the sink.
Another groan. She must be hurting. He hastened his efforts.
Steph’s face burned, but not with fever from her flu. She wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing—that she was retching in front of Branson or that she’d moaned out loud when he took off his shirt. Why was God torturing her with a view of those broad shoulders and incredible abs that could never be hers? Wasn’t it enough that s
he’d thrown up so much her stomach had turned inside out?
He moved toward the toilet and knelt beside her, his rippling muscles momentarily distracting her from her misery. With the wet shirt across his jean-clad knees, his hands found her shoulders and moved up to her hair, his fingers sweeping the strands off her face.
Shocked that tingles of pleasure shot through her system in spite of her sickness, she closed her eyes and leaned into him. The cool cloth caressed her face, swiping gently across her forehead and returning to stroke down her neck. Again and again, he brushed her skin, soothing it with the soft, damp shirt that smelled like a mixture of fabric softener and Branson. If she hadn’t felt like dying, she would’ve been swooning in his arms. Instead, she collapsed against him like a lifeless ragdoll.
She had no idea how much time passed before he spoke, the rumbling voice in his chest vibrating in her ear and startling her awake.
“Let’s get you into bed.”
“Okay.” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper through her parched mouth.
He stood and scooped his hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet. But for his steadying arm around her waist, her legs would’ve collapsed. He helped her to the sink to wash out her mouth. Then, supporting her weight, he moved unerringly through the door that led directly to her bedroom. The fleeting thought occurred that any other time she would’ve relished the feel of his bare chest against her cheek. But, for the moment, survival was foremost on her mind.
When they reached the bed, he helped her climb in, tucking the covers around her and fluffing her pillow. His hands lingered on either side of her face, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering from the bathroom.