Page 88 of Bridesmaid By Chance
He goes off to get a trolley to help with the luggage while I wave bye to Devin and tell him I’ll see him later. Then I head back and sit next toHudson, where he lays his head on my lap and I gently run my fingers through his hair.
It’s the same position we take in the car to the hotel.
And it’s the same exact position we find when we make it inside our hotel room after the quickest check-in process I’ve ever seen. Our bags were brought up for us, and when we reached the room, the bellman shut the drapes and had water and saltines brought to the room as well.
Hudson booked us a suite, so not only do we have a living room with a separate bedroom, but we also have a terrace that looks over Hyde Park. We’re on the couch with a trash can in front of us and a clammy Hudson on my lap.
I sift my hands through his hair and ask, “Think you can have some water?”
He threw up three times in the car, and I’m starting to think it wasn’t the champagne that’s causing this, more like food poisoning.
“No,” he croaks.
“The bellman was saying they could send a company up that administers IVs. Think you could manage that? Get some electrolytes pumping back into your system?”
“Maybe…in a bit,” he says.
“Okay, well, do you want me to give you some space? I can get you set up in the bedroom.”
“No,” he says quickly and then clings to my leg. “Don’t leave.”
“Okay,” I say softly, a smile playing on my lips—not because I’m happy about him being sick but because…men are such babies.
Hudson doesn’t give off needy vibes, especially when he’s wearing one of his suits and making multimillion-dollar deals happen in his office, but the moment he doesn’t feel good, he becomes the clingiest man I’ve ever met. I continue to run my hands through his hair, hating this quiet moment but also loving it at the same time. This is a problem, because I’m getting a taste of his softer side, the side he doesn’t want to show me.
It’s breaking down my defenses.
It’s causing me to…feel things.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“Sorry for what?” I ask.
“Ruining the first part of your trip to London.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
“You know…if you want, you can leave. I don’t want to keep you here against your will.”
“You’re not holding me against my will.”
“You sure?” he says in the groggy voice. “After the last few days, I would have thought this wasn’t for you.”
“I believe I vowed to be with you in sickness and health, so this is me performing my wifely duties.”
“You’re good at it,” he says.
“Funny how flattering you can be when you’re not acting like an ass.”
“Yeah…I know. I’m sorry you have to deal with me.”
“It’s also surprising how many times you apologize. Maybe you should be sick more often.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Thank you. He’s in the living room,” I say as I let the nurses in. We took the hotel up on bringing some IVs up here because, even though he’s stopped throwing up, he’s not looking great. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down.
I follow the two nurses into the living room, where Hudson is stretched across the sofa with the TV on in the background. We found reruns of the UK version ofThe Office, and we’ve been watching that as Hudson has been switching from throwing up to sleeping. Now he’s transitioned to dry heaving, so we think he’s got it all out of his system.
