Page 93 of Faking It
There’s the ding of the elevators.
Zane muttering “Thank you, I’ve got it from here.”
“But what about the event?” asks Zoey.
“I’ll call you in a few.”
The click of the door shutting and then a few seconds later the complete and utter softness of bed beneath me.
“Hold tight. I’m going to sit you up for a second and take your dress off. Are you okay with that?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
A zipper, a pull of fabric with my arms up, the freedom when my bra is unclasped, then two hands slowly lying me down onto cool, cold sheets.
Footsteps. The faucet running. More footsteps. The chill of a washcloth bein
g placed on my forehead.
Then darkness.
The muted sounds of the television.
That’s what I hear first as I fight the grogginess that keeps pulling me under its blanket of comfort.
Hints of memories float. Zane. A doctor. Zane. Medicine. Zane. Sleep.
“Hey, you’re alive,” Zane’s soft murmur of a voice against the crown of my head and his arm tightening around my side is enough to startle me awake.
When my eyes flutter open it takes me a second to take it all in: the soft luxury of the hotel room, the night skyline twinkling in the windows beyond, and the feel of Zane’s body against mine.
“Hey,” I murmur and begin to sit up but he holds me in place.
“Sit tight a moment. You’re bound to be dizzy,” he says and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You scared me there for a bit.”
“What . . .?” I ask, full well knowing I was sick—the dull ache in my head and weird feeling in my body tells me that—but still wanting answers.
“Here, let me help you sit up.”
Zane helps pull me up to sit against the pillows piled along the headboard like he is. “You feeling any better?”
I nod. “Yes . . . just disoriented.”
“The doctor said this particular virus going around does that. He said it hits quick and hard, then is gone within forty-eight hours . . . so that means,” he says and looks at his watch, “you’ve got about twelve more hours to go.”
“Twelve?”
“Yes. You’ve definitely caught up on your sleep. I should have nicknamed you Sleeping Beauty and not Cinder.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back on the pillow for a beat to make my head stop swimming.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“No need to thank me.”
“Yes there is.” I turn my head on the pillow so I can look at him. “You brought me up here, you put me in pajamas, you called a doctor, you took care of me.”
“It’s not a big deal, you would have done the same for me.”
