Murphy's Law

That voice. It was familiar. Garrett didn't waste time trying to place it. Instead, he gestured impatiently with his hand and said, “Green. Nylon. Duffel—aaaaaacho!—bag.”

It took a second before the voice came again. High, cautious. “What do you want it for?”

“Just get it.” Sneeze, sniffle, sneeze! “Please. And a glass of water. Hurry!”

He could feel the woman's curious gaze rake him. While Garrett would like to have explained what he wanted, needed, he couldn't. He was rocked by three sneezes that were so violent they made the cat, who'd apparently been using his chest as a bed, yowl indignantly and jump to the floor.

It was an excellent start.

After a beat of hesitation, he heard the woman's footsteps retreat from the room. She was back almost immediately.

The mattress beneath his hip dipped, the springs creaking as she perched on the edge. He winced, and gritted his teeth to stifle a groan. The pain that cut through his right thigh was incredible.

“Here,” she said, and pushed something into his hands.

His fingertips recognized the scratchy nylon as his beat-up duffel bag. The rasp of the zipper sounded unnaturally loud against the backdrop of tense silence.

Garrett sneezed, twice in quick succession, then sniffled loudly. Since his eyes were too watery to see, he searched the bags contents using only his fingers. What he was looking for had been purposely stored in a small, zippered compartment on the inside, making it easy to find.

His fist closed around an amber prescription bottle with a white top. The pills inside rattled dully when he pulled it free.

“Oh, no,” the woman said. Judging by her tone, she'd just guessed what was wrong with him.

Before Garrett could react, she'd yanked the bottle from his grasp. Again, he heard the rattle of pills against plastic. The sound was quickly replaced by the creak of bedsprings as the woman leaned closer to him.

Garrett opened his mouth when she pressed two pills against his lips. One of her arms slipped beneath his neck, and his wounded leg screamed a protest when she angled him up and touched the rim of a cup—also plastic, by the feel of it—to his mouth.

Water trickled over his parched lips, down his equally parched throat. It tasted delicious, cold and sweet.

“Drink slow,” she instructed, letting only enough water for him to swallow the pills dribble into his mouth.

His breathing was labored; the harsh wheeze of it echoed in his ears. A palm stroked the hair back from his brow before turning inward, angling over his cheek, tracing the line of his shadow-stubbled jaw…

Garrett blamed his wound, the cat, his adverse reaction to the cat…he blamed anything he could think of for the tremor that coursed like sun-warmed honey down his spine.

“How long before they take affect?”

He shrugged tightly. It was all he could manage.

“You're allergic to cats, right?”

He nodded, and noticed—vaguely at first, then with mounting accuracy—that his head was being gently held. His left cheek nuzzled her breasts. As though being splashed by an invisible wave of heat, he felt her warmth radiate from that point throughout the rest of his body.

“A wounded stranger who's allergic to cats. Isn't that just my luck? Okay, Moonshine, visiting hours are over.”

Garrett felt an odd stab of disappointment when the woman lowered his head back to the pillow. The bed jostled when she stood. He groaned. A few seconds later, he heard a disgruntled meow, followed by the soft but firm closing of the bedroom door.

Moonshine, he thought. Hell of a name for a cat.

“Feeling any better yet?” she asked. While her voice was close, there'd been no tell-tale jostle to let him know she was again sitting on the edge of the bed, no wave of her body heat, no jarring bolt of pain in his right thigh.

A stronger pang of disappointment arrowed through him, but it was short-lived. Her fingertips—soft and cool and gentle—were feathering his brow again, pushing back another wayward strand of hair. Garrett thought he could very quickly learn to like the feel of her skin against his. “Getting there,” he said, his voice hoarse and nasally. “What was that thing, a mountain lion?”

“No,” she said, then laughed.

The sound tickled Garrett's ears, seduced him into opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of the face and body it belonged to. His eyes were still puffy and watery; he couldn't see much more than a vague hint of curly brown hair and creamy white skin.

“Although,” she added, “he probably weighs as much as one. Moonshine is a Himalayan cat, born and very expensively bred. A chocolate-point one, to be exact.”