“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 she’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.
“Can’t let you get dehydrated. I’ll get a glass of water and heat up your ginger tea. It’s stone cold by now.”
Too weak to object, she nodded her head. Fading in and out of sleep, she woke to his gentle touch on her forehead. “You’re burning up. Can you drink some water? Maybe sip some tea?”
She struggled to raise her head, but flopped back, with a moan. His hand slipped under her shoulders, lifting her forward. He held the glass in front of her and she guided it to her lips to take a few swallows. Her stomach cramped, and she pushed it away, thinking she’d never make it back to the bathroom in time.
“No more. Makes me sick.”
“Let’s try the ginger tea.”
“Can’t. Help me to the bathroom,” she panted. “Quick.”
“I brought this big bowl.” In seconds he was sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling her against his chest and holding the vessel under her chin.
Queasiness washed over her, but she didn’t throw up. After a few minutes, he set the bowl aside and retrieved a mug from the bedside table.
“Try a swallow of this. It helps. I promise.”
She accepted the cup, blowing before she took a sip. The light, spicy flavor was pleasant, and the warm liquid soothed her throat and stomach. At his urging, she drank a few more swallows, rested a while, and then drank a bit more. As her queasiness improved, chills descended, her body shaking from head to toe.
Heavy with guilt, she begged him to leave, through chattering teeth. “You n-need to get away. You’re going to c-catch this from m-me.”
“Too late,” he said, tightening his hold and settling back against the head of the bed. “I kissed you yesterday. Twice. I’m already exposed.” As if to make a point, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“S-stubborn m-man,” she said, wrapping her arms around his delicious chest and burrowing against him for warmth. She blinked heavy eyes while composing another argument in her mind, but her words were lost in a thick fog.
CHAPTER 20
“Mommy! Who’s that?”
A child’s voice jolted Branson awake. Where am I?
Beside him in the bed, someone jerked and screamed, “Oh my gosh!”
The female screamer shoved at his side and, two seconds later, he slid to the floor, face down, taking the sheet with him.
“Well, well, well.” A second woman spoke, from somewhere above him. “What have we here?”
“Mommy, are you married now?” asked the child.
“No!” came the shouted response.
As Bran’s mind began to clear, he recognized Steph’s voice.
“But you told me grownups only sleep together if they’re married.”
The child, he now knew to be Ellie, was close, as if she were leaning over to inspect him.
The second woman, who must be Laurie, the babysitter, laughed out loud. “Try to talk your way out of that one, Stephanie.”
As Bran struggled to free himself from the tangle of covers, Steph’s voice came from the bed above him. “I’m sorry I pushed you on the floor, Bran. It was a reflex.”
“No problem.” He managed to yank one hand free.
“I think I need to get to the toilet, again.. I… Oops!” A hard boot landed on his back, followed by the rest of her, tumbling off the bed, along with more covers. “Sorry. Lost my balance.” She wrestled with the blanket, then she rolled off, her air cast clunking toward the restroom. “You explain it, Bran. Tell them what happened.”
