Page 39 of Chase Me If You Can
I can’t blame the migraine for the way my throat goes tight. No one has ever gone out of their way like this for me. Most of the time when I’ve admitted to having a migraine, the men I’ve dated have all but rolled their eyes and told me to take some ibuprofen.
Wes finishes taping off the curtains. It’s blessedly dark in the room now, just enough ambient light from the various LEDs on electronics and the cracked bathroom door to illuminate the worry creasing his brow. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and sets the tape next to my room key. “You might feel better without the braid.”
I start to reach for the elastic, but he bats my hand away with a light touch and unravels my hair before running his fingers through the dusty strands. A sigh escapes when he does it again. “That feels nice,” I mumble into the pillow. I don’tcare that I shouldn’t be letting him get this close when I feel too awful to keep him at arm’s length. It’s too good to stop him.
“You sure you don’t want me to let you sleep? They said it could be another hour or two before my room is ready.”
I want Wes to stay right where he is, running his fingers through my hair in soothing strokes, but I can’t make myself ask for it. Not with words, anyway. When he starts to pull his hand away, I wrap my fingers around his wrist and tug his hand back toward my head.
“Guess I’m staying, then.” His soft laugh is laced with what I swear is affection. “Here, this will be more comfortable.”
Wes kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed next to me before tugging my head onto his lap, my hair fanned out over his thighs. The king-size bed gives us plenty of room for the awkward position, but I forget all about that when he starts to gently knead the rigid muscles along the back of my neck and shoulders.
“Does your neck usually lock up like this?”
“Sometimes. This is a bad one,” I whisper into his leg, curling closer. My eyelids are heavy, dragging me down as he delicately works the tension out of my neck. It feels so good that I have to bite back a sigh.
“Anything else I can do?”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing.” I relax into him despite distant alarm. The voice in the back of my head protests against Wes witnessing me like this—a lump of a human whose own brain launches attacks against her—but I can’t bring myself to push him away. Not when he’s expertly loosening the muscles in my neck. Not when it feels so good to not have to do every last little thing for myself for once.
Even if I’m all too aware that the next time this happens, when I’m alone again, it will be that much harder.
But I’m still wrapped in Wes’s giant hoodie, finally warm, and too tired to do what I should. With the comforting weight of his arm on my shoulders, I let the beckoning blackness have me.
Chapter Eleven
The next time I wakeup, the first thing I see is a collection of ginger ale, Gatorade, and crackers on the nightstand next to my half-empty bottle of water. Migraine hangovers aren’t so different from the normal kind, except you don’t get to have any of the fun the night before to earn it.
Groaning as I start to push myself onto my elbow, I’m not expecting the warm touch on my back. “Easy,” Wes murmurs, his arm sliding under my shoulders to help me up.
The pain is thankfully almost gone, reduced to a dull ache, but it’s too nice to be fussed over to stop him. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine p.m.” He brushes a tangled strand of hair back from my face, the touch lingering. “How do you feel?”
“Like I desperately need a shower.” I take a tentative sip of ginger ale, and when my stomach doesn’t revolt, swallow a bit more. “I haven’t looked. Is this one Wes-approved?”
He laughs softly, something like affection lingering in his expression, as if he couldn’t be more pleased at the private joke. “Yeah, it’s a good one.”
I fight the urge to lean into his touch. There aren’t many people who know me well enough to share an inside joke. It’s probably the meds turning me sentimental, but it’s awfully nice to laugh together.
“Have you been here this whole time?” I ask to distract myself from the growing intimacy of the moment.
“Mostly.” Wes shrugs and closes his laptop, letting it rest on his legs. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
He says it simply, no trace of irritation or annoyance lurking in the words. In fact, if anything, he soundspleased. But he’s also plainly left the room at some point, his jeans swapped out for black sweats, and then there’s the assortment of drinks on the nightstand that definitely weren’t there when I fell asleep.
None of which woke me up, so why did he come back?
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry. There’s a few more snacks, or I can run out to pick something up if you want to grab that shower. Pretty sure our choices are going to be Subway or pizza, but it beats gas station snacks.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not even a little.” Wes already has his phone in his hand when he asks, “What’s going to be easier on your stomach? Sandwich or pizza?”
“Sandwich.”
“Mind texting me what you want? I’ll take my time so you don’t have to rush your shower.”
