Managed (VIP 2)

He sits on the foot of the lounger. “I called your name three times.”

“Sorry. I…” I don’t know what to say, so I shrug.

He assesses my face, worrying. “What’s going on in that head, chatty girl?”

“I don’t feel well.” It’s true. I want to climb under the covers and cry. “Too much driving on mountain roads, I guess.”

The cool press of his fingers to my brow almost has me weeping, and I have to blink several times to keep from losing it.

His frown deepens. “You feel warm.”

“And you feel nice and cool.” I force a smile. “Kiss me and make it all better.”

He leans in and kisses my forehead. But he’s on a mission. “I’m serious. I want you to stay in tonight. I’ll text Dr. Stern and have her come look you over.”

“No, don’t,” I say to Gabriel. “I’m fine. I’ll be better off working.”

“Bollocks to that.” Without an apparent effort, he scoops me up and carries me inside. Despite myself, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been carried around, or handled as if I were precious. And though I’m not really sick, his care makes me want to cling to him and cry my troubles away.

He sets me on the couch. “Stay.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute him, but he’s already going into the bedroom.

He returns with a blanket, which he promptly tucks around my body. “There.”

“You’re acting like a mother hen.” Which I love.

“Cluck, cluck,” he deadpans as he picks up the house phone with one hand and grabs the TV remote with the other. I’m impressed by his multitasking; he scrolls through the movie selections and selects a rom-com, while simultaneously ordering a soup and bread basket through room service.

“And a pot of tea,” he adds, finishing up the call.

My poor, battered heart turns to mush there and then. He’s getting me tea. My voice is too thick when I speak. “Italians aren’t known for their tea.”

“It’ll likely be rubbish,” he agrees. “But it will have to do.”

And though I’m all tucked up like a package, he moves me once more, lifting me onto his lap and snuggling us both under the blanket. It’s so much better being held. I burrow against his chest, and his arms wrap around me.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs in my hair.

“I’m fine. Really. I can go with you—”

“No.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Even if you aren’t ill, you need rest. Now, shut up and do as directed for once.”

“Bossy.”

“You’re only sorry it’s my turn to do the bossing.”

Unable to help myself, I stroke his chest. Touching him is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. “What was you said about forced relaxation being an oxymoron?”

“I don’t recall that at all. You’ve grown delusional in your exhaustion.”

I snort, and he kisses me on the forehead, chuckling.

The movie starts playing, and we fall silent.

“How did you know I love When Harry Met Sally?” I ask softly.

He shifts a little beneath me, propping one foot on the table. “You told me.”

“What? When?”

“The third night on the coach. You were taking a piss at my love of all things Star Trek, and I asked what your favorite movies were. And I still take umbrage that you think Spaceballs is on par with Star Wars.”

I grin at the disgust in his voice, but a small jolt runs through me as I think back on that night. “You remember all of that?”

His hand sifts through my hair, spreading lovely little shivers down my spine. “I remember everything you say, Darling. You talk, I listen.”

I almost tell him I love him then. The words bubble up and dance on my tongue. But my mouth refuses to open. Fear holds me back, as if by saying it I’ll somehow start the beginning of the end. It makes no sense, but I can’t shake the feeling.

I kiss the underside of his jaw, where the scent of his cologne blends with the warmth of his skin, and hug him close.

He holds me until room service arrives. Given the speed at which they show up, I’m guessing we get preferential treatment. A perk, I suppose, of Kill John renting the entire floor.

Gabriel pulls on his suit jacket and tugs his cuffs into place as I pretend to find interest in my meal. But my appetite is gone.

“Don’t poke at your soup,” he says. “Eat it.”

“I’m waiting for it to cool down.”

Apparently I’m terrible at lying because he hovers at the end of the couch, peering at me as if he can pull the thoughts from my head by sheer will.

“I should stay,” he says finally.

When he pulls his phone from his pocket as if to start texting, I touch his hand. “No, go. I swear I’m all right. I’m just having an off night. It happens.”