I dream the most absurd things.
Vivid colors and swirling images of faces. I see Karli and Timmy and my sister Isla. I see my mom. I see Cole, and whenever his face drifts into view, he’s wearing a concerned frown. He’s usually smirking, so I know it’s a dream.
I dream that there’s a strange man in my apartment, too. Cole lets him in, even when I beg him not to.
“It’s the doctor,” he tells me in a voice that brooks no arguments. Even convinced he’s a dream, I don’t argue.
The face of an older man with a kind smile swims in front of me. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Johnson. I’ve been told you think you have the flu.”
“Mhm.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Hot.”
He opens his bag and then I’m poked and prodded, my temperature taken and heartbeat listened to. I close my eyes gratefully when he’s done, seeking the blissful half-dream again.
“She’s running on one hundred and four. No wonder she fainted.”
“She’s been pushing herself very hard with work,” Cole adds, but he doesn’t add that he’s the reason I have to. I consider pointing it out, but my tongue feels heavy.
The doctor puts a hand on my forehead. “How’s your head doing?”
“It hurts like hell,” I mumble. “Except there’s no Virgil to show me around. It’s not nearly as nice as Dante’s.”
Cole’s voice is exasperated. “She’s an English Literature graduate.”
They head into my living room to talk, their voices hushed. It’s draining to try to listen. It’s not long until I’m fighting a losing battle with my eyelids.
“She needs rest and a lot of fluids.”
“I shouldn’t take her to the hospital?”
“Not for a flu. If it gets worse, call me. And I want her to take these. Two pills every four hours.”
“All right.”
“Does she have someone you can call? Can you stay here overnight? She shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll stay,” Cole says.
“If her throat starts feeling sore, make her some tea. Keep the cold towel on her forehead. I’ll leave this thermometer with you—call me if she’s running one hundred and four for more than a couple of hours.”
“I will.”
There’s more talk that I don’t catch, and a door closes. I snuggle deeper into my bed and lose the fight with my eyelids. Every piece of my body is exhausted.
Cold hands put the wet towel on my forehead back into place. It feels divine. “Thanks,” I murmur.
“Anytime, Holland.”
It’s the last thing I hear for quite some time.
I wake up to a strong hand on my shoulder and something cold pressed to my lips. “Skye, I need you to swallow. Two pills, that’s all.”
The room is dark and I have to blink a few times for things to come into view. Cole is sitting beside me.
“Come on.”
I open my mouth like a toddler and he pops two pills in my mouth. I reach for the glass of water he hands me, and he helps support me as I drink. I’m breathless by the time I finish and collapse against the pillows again.
“Jesus Christ,” I say.
“Still Cole, last time I checked.”
I want to laugh, but all that comes out is a low wheeze. My throat hurts.
I try to roll over, but my jeans snag uncomfortably. I’m still in my work clothes. High-waisted pants.
“Ugh. Off, off, off.” I toss back the covers and try to get the button undone. My fingers tremble with the effort.
“I’ll help you.” Cole’s hands are cool and strong around mine. He finds the button and zipper in seconds and helps pull the skintight jeans down my legs.
His hands stop at my ankles. “Socks on or off?”
“Off,” I groan. “I’m so warm.”
He tugs it all off and I feel about a thousand times better once they’re off my skin. I feel like laughing, seeing this large, well-dressed man at the edge of my messy bed, in my small bedroom, taking off clothes. It’s ridiculous. It must be another one of my fever-induced dreams.
A while later, I blink my eyes awake to another cold compress against my forehead. “Skye, is there someone you want me to call?”
I smile at the male voice. It really is a lovely voice, all deep and powerful. “Nope,” I say. “No one at all.”
“Your sister?”
Another wheezy laugh. “Noooo. She wouldn’t care.”
The beautiful voice is silent, and I snuggle into my pillow again. It’s fluffy like a cloud. My entire bed is. It’s the best bed in the world.
“I find that hard to believe,” the voice says, and I don’t know why or what it’s referring to.
“Your voice is lovely,” I mumble. “Great voice. Excellent.”
The next time I hear it, it sounds amused. I should know the person it belongs to, but I can’t for the life of me remember who it is.
“You’re delirious with fever.”
“And you don’t know how to take a compliment, Mr. Voice.”
“Maybe I’m just not very used to them from you.”
I open my eyes and peer to the other side of the bed, but I can’t make anything out in the darkness. “That’s stupid. I love to give compliments. I give them to my friends all the time.”
The bed dips, and then a large, cool hand curves around my forehead. I lean into it. “You have great hands, too.”
A masculine snort. “Yes, you definitely still have a fever. It should break soon.”
I don’t want to talk about fevers or sickness. I fumble blindly for his wrist and keep his hand glued to my forehead, to where his skin is cool and just a little rough. It feels like heaven.
“This is nice,” I breathe.
He snorts again. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
The voice is quiet again, and for much longer this time. Figuring he won’t answer, I content myself in stroking the skin of his wrist and relishing in the feel of his hand on my forehead.
“Well,” he says finally, “I’d like to be.”
“Me too,” I breathe. Having this voice in my life forever seems like a first-place prize.
He laughs, the voice washing over my feverish senses like a cool wave. “I wish you’d remember that when you’re no longer feverish.”
“Of course I will.” My hands claw up his arm, up his sleeve, until I find the very solid chest of the man the voice belongs to. It’s like steel beneath my hands. I feel too weak to explore it, which must be one of life’s cruel jokes. Deliver me a delicious man in bed and render me too weak to take advantage of him.
He lets me examine in silence, until finally, his hands capture mine. “Sleep, Skye.”
“Mhm. Okay.” It does feel good to relax against the pillows again, and darkness beckons. But there’s something I need to know first. A memory that flashed through my pounding head, clues that my tired brain puzzled together with the voice and the hard chest. “Hey. We’ve slept together, right?”
He gives a low, dark laugh, and I want to bottle it so I can have it on demand. “Yes, we have. Weeks ago.”
“Mhm. I remember.” I turn over so I’m closer to the voice. “I think about it aaaall the time.”
Brief silence. “You do?”
I don’t see why he seems surprised. Even in my fever-addled brain, I know the memory is one of my favorites to revisit.
“Best sex of my life,” I mumble.
A hand flits across my hair, smoothing. “You’ll really hate yourself for saying that later. And me, for being here to listen.”
I try to laugh and break into a cough instead. He’s there, pushing me up to sitting and handing me a glass of water. When I can breathe again, I collapse against the pillows in a worthless, energy-less heap.
His voice is the last thing I hear. “I think about it too,” he says quietly. “All the time.”
I blink my eyes open to faint sunlight streaming in through my curtains. My head feels like it’s made of lead bricks, my mouth cloudy. Ugh.
A cold compress slips from my head to the bed beside me. Something large moves and I startle in response.
“Hey, it’s just me.” Cole is sitting up against my headboard, a book in his hand. There are circles under his eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He reaches over and puts a hand on my forehead without hesitation, like he touches me all the time. He must have, during the night. I remember fever and sweat and whispered conversations in the dark.
I close my eyes at the feeling of his skin against mine. “Much better,” he declares. “I think your fever broke a couple of hours ago.”
I glance over at the clock on my nightstand. 6:50 a.m.
I sit up with a jolt and immediately groan. Everything hurts. Pain shoots up my neck and my head, and there are sharp pains in my joints. If this is the flu, it’s the worst bout I’ve ever had.
“Woah.” Cole’s arms cradle me as I sink back into the pillows. He fluffs one of them for me. “Steady there, tiger.”
“I have to get to work.”
“Absolutely not, you don’t.”
“Between the Pages…”
“I’ve texted Karli from your phone and let her know that you’re taking a sick day.” His voice is firm and I reluctantly relax back into the pillows.
There’s so much to be done, and there’s no one to cover for me, but even I have to admit that I’m not up for it. My head is still pounding from my feeble attempt at sitting up.
Cole’s hands push my hair back and out of my face. “I thought I’d be assaulted for making that decision for you.”
“I’m taking a day off fighting.”
He puts the book down. “Finally.”
I take a few deep, steadying breaths, and gradually the pain in my head abates. I turn on my side and look at him.
He’s still in his slacks and sweater, but he’s taken off his shoes, his sock-clad feet looking big and vulnerable at the end of my bed. Rumpled hair. Tired eyes.
“What are you reading?”
He shows me the cover. “Agatha Christie. I realized I’ve never actually read anything by her.”
“She’s a classic.”
“So I’ve been told.” He sweeps a hand out toward the other side of my bedroom, where books are stacked high. “You really are a bookstore clerk, aren’t you?”
“Mhm. And a failed writer.”
His eyebrows rise, and I know I shouldn’t have said that, but there’s no energy in me to fight right now. All I want is to lie in this bed forever, my eyes closed, making lazy conversation until this flu passes.
He scoots down until his head is on one of the pillows. “You said you were a writer when we met.”
“I haven’t published a book, though.”
Cole looks thoughtful. “Isn’t it quite rare to have published a book by your age?” He nods at the stacks of books that line my wall. I don’t even have a shelf. “Name any one of those writers who were published by twenty-six.”
“Dostoevsky,” I say. “Bram Stoker. And… mhm, David Foster Wallace.”
He smiles wryly. “You have to outsmart me at every turn, don’t you?”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“All right, but can you at least admit that they’re outliers?”
I sigh. The last thing I want to talk about is my own inadequacies. “Yes. Like a thirty-four-year-old billionaire developer.”
Cole grimaces. “People like to remind me of that.”
I curl up on my side and ignore the protest of my sore throat, annoyed that I’m talking. “Tell me about it.”
“About what?” He looks the least composed I’ve ever seen him, and I decide that this is the Cole Porter I would be able to like, if we weren’t enemies.
“About people reminding you about your success all the time. It must be exhausting.”
Cole gives me a crooked smile. “I can’t tell if this is a trick or not. I’ll complain, and then you’ll tell me I’m not part of the oppressed class.”
I blink at him. “No. No, I won’t. I’m genuinely curious.”
He lies down on his side, so we’re facing each other in the dim morning light of my bedroom.
It feels surreal, having him here. “You must be invited everywhere,” I say. “To everything. Even events you have no interest in attending.”
His smile is self-mocking. “All the time.”
“By people you don’t know as well, right?”
“Oh, yes,” he says. “I showed up to a few things in the beginning before I realized I’m just invited like a trophy.”
That strikes me as profoundly sad, and I tell him that, but he just laughs. “Not really. It’s a nice problem to have.”
“I suppose. I’m not invited to a lot of things. But when I am, I always go.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“The newspaper spread about you that I read yesterday. No, don’t groan! I have a very serious question about it.”
His smile is gone, a sudden seriousness there instead. “You do?”
“Yes. Do you save all articles published about yourself? Do you keep a binder? I would, if it was me.”
His lips twitch. “You’re cute when you’re feverish.”
“Ugh.”
“You don’t like being called cute?”
“Not by you. Not at the moment, at least.” If anything, I want him to think of me as sexy or sensual. Irresistible. The things he’d said to me that first night in the hotel. At the moment, I feel about as cute as a potato, unwashed and sweaty.
“Noted.” Cole turns over on his back and stares up at the ceiling. “My mother saved all the newspaper articles when they first began. I don’t know if she still does.”
“I guarantee you she does.”
He smiles, and it’s a soft, private one. “Probably. I should ask her.”
I rise up on an elbow, suddenly distraught by this new version of Cole Porter, the one taking care of me when I’m sick and who answers my questions in a deep, soft voice.
Somehow, we’re in an alternate universe.
“You stayed. All night. Why?”
He glances over at me with narrowed eyes. “You were seconds from collapsing last night. You fainted.”
“Oh.”
“Do you remember a doctor being here?”
“Mmm. Faintly. You called someone?”
He nods. “And I’ve already checked in with him this morning. You’re prescribed bed rest, lots and lots of fluids, and more of the pills on your bedside table.”
I’m speechless for a bit. My head is still spinning, and I close my eyes against the light of day. “Wow.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Better. Compared to last night, I mean. Whoa.”
He reaches over and fluffs my pillow. “I’m surprised,” he says.
“About what?”
“I thought I’d be chased out the second you woke up without a fever. You know, being your number-one enemy and all.”
I want to laugh, but all I can manage is a smile. “No energy,” I say. “It’s a strategic retreat.”
“A truce,” he corrects.
“Yes. It’s nice,” I murmur, turning over again. Sleep is already trying to reclaim me and there is no point in fighting it. I don’t have the power to.
The last thing I hear is a cell phone ringing and Cole’s faint curse before he answers it. His footsteps retreat in the apartment, but one sentence reaches me. Cancel my meetings.
And then I’m lost again.
I’m disgusting.
It’s the first thing I feel when I wake up again. The clock on my night table reads eleven a.m. My eyes feel like they’ve been glued together, my hair a mess, and my mouth tastes like copper.
The bedsheets, my own T-shirt… I’ve sweated all night long.
I need a shower.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit for a while, catching my breath. I’m in panties and a T-shirt, and that’s all.
Cole.
He must have helped me off with my pants, and my shoes, and… he’d stayed. Called a doctor. Cancelled his meetings. The ground shifts beneath my feet. No, Skye, I tell myself, and compartmentalize that somewhere far away. I can’t process that right now. One thing at a time. Shower first. Contemplate enemy’s kindness second.
My bedroom door is open and there’s a voice from the living room. Cole’s talking to someone on the phone.
“No,” I hear him say. “Absolutely not. I know it’s your life—don’t go there, Blair—but if you’re asking for my permission, it’s no.”
I’m too intrigued to stop listening, so I inch closer to the open door. Whoever is on the line talks for a very long time.
Cole sighs. “Of course I want you to be happy. What kind of question is that?”
I’m eavesdropping. Snooping, really. And yet I can’t find it in myself to move away.
“Yes,” he says finally. “I’ll see you on Sunday. We can talk more then.”
His voice drifts closer and I scoot back in bed just in time. Cole’s eyebrows rise when he sees I’m awake. He leans against the door post, still in the same clothes as last night.
“You’re up.”
“Yes.”
He flashes his phone. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
“Good.”
I nod as well, but I have no idea what to say. He stayed. It’s nearly midday, and he’s still here, postponing world domination.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thirsty. In desperate need of a shower.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Hungry?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“Go have a shower. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
I’m too stunned to protest. “All right.” I head to the bathroom and hear him grab my keys from my hall side table, my front door clicking closed behind him.
Wow.
I feel weak as a lamb as I strip off my soaked T-shirt and slide my underwear off. The shower is marvelously uncomplicated. I shower with cold water, enough to cool my hot skin, before turning it back to hot and soothing my aching muscles.
I stare at my nice, expensive shampoo and conditioner, and they stare back at me. Do I have the energy?
It feels like it takes all the willpower I possess, but I squeeze out a dollop of shampoo and start to massage my painful scalp. Everything hurts, but the smell of my products helps. Caramel and florals.
I emerge from the shower five years younger and about a hundred times fresher. Looking into the mirror, my cheeks are flushed and my eyes are shiny.
“Damn.” I look as sick as I feel. I think of all the things I probably said to Cole last night. Of the fact that he showed up to the book reading, answering the invitation we’d sent to his office in person. It was meant to be a victory statement. Look at us doing well! And instead, he’d gotten another night in bed with me, but without any of the benefits. Had he stayed out of kindness? Out of pity? Out of interest? I don’t know which option scares me the most.
I wrap myself in the largest towel I own and crack open the bathroom door. The coast seems clear, and I hurry across the living room.
My couch looks slept on. There’s a coffee cup on the table. Guilt and embarrassment knot together in my stomach. “Save Between the Pages,” I murmur to myself. “That’s all that matters.”
I’m half-dressed when I hear the front door opening. Hurriedly, I pull on an oversized T-shirt and grab a sweater from a drawer. There’s nothing sexy about me right now. The woman he met at the hotel bar—the woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate in going after it—feels a million miles away.
“I’m back!” he calls.
I push the bedroom door open. He’s unpacking a massive bag of groceries on my kitchen table. A carton of orange juice. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Jam. Apples.
“Woah.”
“Your fridge is practically empty. I got you a bit of everything from the convenience store next door.” He runs a hand through his thick hair, now a mess. “It’s been a while since I went food shopping.”
He means it, too.
I step closer. He got a packet of cookies and a chocolate bar. A large bottle of lemonade. A box of Advil. It’s the ultimate stay-at-home-sick day package.
“Thank you.”
He takes a step back and nods at me. “Sure, sure.”
I pick up the packet of cookies, mostly to have something to do. “White chocolate chip?”
“Ate them a lot growing up.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry you had to miss work for this. I didn’t mean… you didn’t have to, you know.”
His lip curls into a half-smile. “I know. But then, you told me you didn’t have anyone to call.”
I turn away from him to hide the embarrassment on my face. Awesome, Skye. What other painful things did I tell him?
He glances down at his watch. He must be itching to get away, and here I am, pitiable and keeping him from his work. “Well,” I say. “Thanks for making sure your opponent remained in good shape.”
“My pleasure,” he murmurs. “Does this mean the truce is over?”
“I’m considering it. I have a meeting scheduled with my advisors later today.”
He smiles at my lame joke, but I think it’s more out of pity than humor. “You have the day off,” he says. “We spoke about that this morning. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I do.”
He takes a step toward the front door, like he’s already itching to get away. “Good.”
Courage, Skye.
“Look,” I start. “I’m really sorry about last night. About… this. Thanks for staying. I didn’t mean to put that on you.”
He cocks his head to the side, and despite the lack of sleep, the lack of a shower, he still looks like something out of a catalogue. It’s not fair. “I didn’t mind,” he says.
“I know your time is valuable. Anyway, I just wanted to say that. And that I’d appreciate it if this didn’t affect our professional relationship.”
“Our professional relationship,” he repeats, all trace of humor gone from his face.
“Yeah. Between the Pages. The two-month deal.” I swallow down the lump that seems to form when I think about the bookstore closing.
“It won’t.”
“Good.” I’m nodding like a deranged person, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest.
“Like you said, I had to ensure my opponent was in good shape.”
I nod again. He’s said several times that he enjoys winning against someone who puts up a fight. I can oblige with putting up a fight, that’s for sure, but not with letting him win. “And you did. You could become a nurse. If your empire fails, I mean. Something to fall back on.”
He grabs his phone from the hallway table and slips it roughly into one of his pockets. That’s all he had with him, I realize. “Excellent advice.”
I rub my neck. “Yeah. Well…”
“See you around, Skye.”
“Bye,” I whisper, but he’s already out the door.
I sink onto the couch and cover my face. Damn. I got what I wanted, and still, I feel like we’ve just had an argument. And we hardly even know each other.
Through my splayed fingers, I peek out at my apartment. He was here. He saw the mobile of crystals that my eccentric mother made me a few years ago and insists I keep hung for good vibes. He saw my overflowing laundry hamper. The bodice ripper I’m currently reading, very incriminatingly lying on my bedside table.
It was nice of him to stay. At the same time, he’s trying to destroy the store. So why do I feel like I was rude in sending him away?
I bury myself under blankets, munching on a white chocolate chip cookie that I fear will now always remind me of Cole Porter, when my phone vibrates.
It’s him.
Cole Porter: These are Dr. Johnson’s contact details. He’s been informed that you’re better, but if you take a turn for the worse, contact him immediately.
The doctor, whom Cole arranged to make a late home visit. Something twists inside me, and this time it’s not pain or sore muscles or even embarrassment. It’s guilt at my rudeness.
And beneath it, something far more dangerous.
Feelings.
