Page 71 of Total Abandon

The Catcher in the Rye.

Shaking my head, I place the book back where it was. Classical music, red wine, and English literature—this man grew up around wealth.

Mi amor.The memory of softly spoken words floods back to me. Mylove.I don’t speak Spanish, but even I know that one. They cast an uneasy heaviness in my belly. Even in my drunken, stripped-back state, they had stunned me into silence. There is no doubt in my mind that Zeke feels nothing for me, other than perhaps some semblance of friendship after the weeks we havespent thrust into each other's proximity. He’s the president of the bachelor's club for casual sex. But still, the sound of those words on his lips was intoxicating.

Huffing, I roll onto the pillow and bury my face in it, letting out a moan as I get a hit of his pine and musk scent. I need to get out of here. After last night, I need to retreat to my own space where I can resurrect the walls I keep around my emotions.

I force myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and groaning when my head thumps and spins. It was the strangest thing to feel so stripped bare, to be left with no shield against the outpouring of emotion that had bubbled up from nowhere. The tears hadn’t been born of pain or hurt, but relief. Sheer, unadulterated relief at being so unburdened by the outside world—strangely freeing.

I pad on tiptoes across the hall into my own room and throw myself down onto the bed. Wrapping myself in a Zeke-free comforter that smells of nothing but fabric softener, I close my eyes. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know I’m being roused by the dip of my mattress.

“Take these and drink this.” A bottle of water is pressed into my hand, and he holds out his palm, revealing two small white pills. The throbbing in my head feels worse, and my throat may as well be on fire. Sliding myself up higher on my pillows, I take them gratefully and sling them back. “You didn’t have to move, you know.”

My eyes tumble to his as I swallow the water, seeing him survey me astutely with veiled brown eyes, his hair still deliciously mussed from sleep. “No mess, remember?” I say quietly, averting my eyes as I take another sip of water.

He makes an unintelligible noise deep in his throat and stands. “Get some sleep and shout for me if you need anything.” With that, he turns and walks away without another word.

***

By mid-afternoon, I admit defeat. Chloe Devlin does in fact get sick.

“I think I’m sick.” I sigh, throwing an arm above my head. I’m lying on the couch, drowning in a pair of Zeke’s grey sweats that he threw my way when I finally managed to get out of bed. I’ve been drip-fed pills every four hours and supplied with honey and lemon tea as well as soup. If I didn’t feel so rough, I might actually swoon over how attentive he’s being.

“Yep,” he says, looking over at me with a small smile. He and Diego are working on a preschool project. The large, cherry wood coffee table is scattered with craft materials, and they’re currently attempting to attach rings around Saturn to join the other half-assembled planets that will make up a model of the solar system. PG prowls interestedly around Diego’s legs, yowling for attention every few seconds.

“I was sick too,” Diego pipes up merrily, sticking his tongue out as he tries and fails to place a glob of glue on the section of paper mâché Zeke is pointing at.

“Well aware, you little Petri dish.”

Zeke laughs, just as Diego turns wide, confused doe eyes on me as he places a hand absent mindedly on PG’s arched back to console him. “What’s a Petri dish?”

“It’s something grubby little germs grow in.” I cough, groaning as my throat burns. It hurts to swallow, it hurts to talk, and it hurts to just lie here. Diego’s rounded eyes bounce back to his father.

“Don’t listen to her, Diego. She gets cranky when she’s sick.” He grins, ruffling his son’s hair.

Two hours later, Zeke is scowling at a thermometer in his hand. “Jesus Chloe, you’re running at a hundred and two degrees.”

“Fantastic news,” I croak, shutting my eyes. Even I have to admit, I feel like death.

“Open your mouth.”

“Is now really the time?” I joke feebly, peeking up at him through half-closed lids.

He rolls his eyes, but I see his lips twitch. “Just do as you're told, woman. Diego had tonsillitis, which is pretty infectious. If you’ve caught it from him, you’ll likely need antibiotics.”

“How comeyoudon’t have it then?”

“I had my tonsils out when I was eight. Stop stalling and open up,” he admonishes, slanting one dark brow. My throat feels gross and the thought of him peering down there sounds like the opposite of appealing.

“I assure you, I’ve seen the back of your throat before, Chloe,” he drawls wickedly, noting my hesitation.

“I’ve changed my mind about the dad-core thing. It’s not hot when it’s directed at me,” I grumble, but obediently open my mouth.

“Well,” he says contemplatively after a beat. “Unless you’ve swallowed two golf balls today, you definitely need a doctor.”

“Swallowing golf balls sounds like something that would also require a doctor, if you ask me,” I throw back, letting out a defeated sigh. He levels me with a stern look. “Fine,” I agree. “But if they try to put a thermometer up my ass, I’m out.”

Zeke taps a few buttons on his phone with his thumb and holds it to his ear, sliding his gaze back to mine. “I think that’s unlikely, but on the off chance they do, I know you can take it.” Sparks fly in those chocolate eyes as they swim with the devious memory of just what he did to me last night. My cheeks flush in a way that has nothing to do with the fever I’m running, and I roll my eyes to hide the steady ball of tension forming in my belly. Even when I’m sick as a dog, I still want to climb Zeke Guerra like a tree.