Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“Jesus.” I pulled back. “You’re burning up.”
She was too narcoleptic to speak. Or move. How long had this been going on? Was she like this yesterday? Had I missed her illness in my quest to prove to my brain that my dick wasn’t the one behind this train wreck’s wheel?
I touched her forehead again. It sizzled. “Sweetheart.”
“Please get out.” The words clawed past her throat.
“Someone needs to take care of you.”
“That someone definitely isn’t you. You made that clear these past couple days.”
I said nothing. She was right. I hadn’t bothered to check on her. Perhaps I’d wished she’d check on me. In truth, she’d already gone beyond any expectations in trying to make whatever it was between us work. Meanwhile, I’d shut her down. Repeatedly.
“Shortbread, let me get you some medicine and tea.”
“I don’t want you to nurse me to health. Do you hear me?” She must have hated that I’d seen her like this. Weak and ill. “Call Momma and Frankie. It’s them I want by my side.”
I swallowed but didn’t argue. I understood she didn’t want to feel humiliated. To be taken care of by the man who ensured she understood her insignificance to him. How did her bullshit meter not fry? How could she think I really felt nothing toward her?
“First, I’ll get you medicine, tea, and water. Then I’ll call for Hettie to stay with you. Then I’ll notify your mother.” I tugged her comforter up to her chin. “No arguments.”
She tried to wave me out, groaning at the slightest movement. “Whatever. Just go. I don’t want to see your face.”
I gave her what she wanted, though as always, not in the way she expected. The sequence of actions didn’t proceed as promised. First, I contacted Cara to dispatch the private jet to Georgia. Then I called my mother-in-law and Franklin—separately—demanding their presence. Only then did I enter the kitchen to grab water, tea, and ibuprofen for Shortbread’s fever.
Naturally, like the chronic idler he often proved to be, Oliver still sat at the island, now enjoying an extra-large slice of red velvet cake I was pretty sure was meant to be consumed by Dallas.
“What are you still doing here?” I demanded, collecting the things I needed for her.
He scratched his temple with the handle of his fork, brows pulled together. “You invited me here. You wanted to watch a soccer game, remember?”
I did not remember. I didn’t even remember my own address right now. “Get out.”
“What about the—”
I snatched the plate from his fingers, admitting to myself that I’d treaded into feral grounds. “This cake wasn’t for you to eat.”
“You’ve gone insane in the ten minutes you were gone.” Oliver gawked at me, wide-eyed. “What happened to you? Did Durban not get her hands on the latest Henry Plotkin book and take her anger out on you?”
Shit.
The Henry Plotkin book.
I shoved Oliver out with a fork still clutched in his grimy fist, dialing Hettie with my free hand.
She half-yawned, half-spoke. “Yes?”
“Dallas is ill. You need to come here and take care of her until my in-laws arrive in about two hours.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her energy returned tenfold. “And what the hell are you gonna do during this time?”
“Freeze my balls off.”
I could have sent Cara to do this. It wouldn’t have been the most gallant thing I’d ever done—Cara straddled the thin border between fifties and sixties, suffered a busted back, and deserved her time off on Christmas—but not unheard of either. Hell, I could’ve sent any of my six lower-grade assistants. But I didn’t.
Something compelled me to join the three-hundred-strong line outside my local Barnes & Noble for a chance to get my hands on the brand-new fourteenth and final book in the Henry Plotkin series—Henry Plotkin and the Cadaverous Phantoms.
And by “chance,” I meant I would definitely get it for Shortbread. Even if I had to pry it off the hands of a terminally ill, orphaned kindergartener. I had no qualms about setting the entire place on fire if it meant returning with the treasured book. It was what she wanted—what she had planned to do with her time tonight—and by God, she was going to get it.
A scowl stamped on my face as a few reporters interviewed people in the freezing cold about how long they’d been standing in line (four to seven hours), how they planned to pass the time until the store opened in the morning (with hot drinks and sleeping bags), and what they thought would happen in the book (I tuned out that part).
I pondered how I’d reached this new low in life. I’d never done anything remotely as uncomfortable for anyone. Even for my ex-fiancée, whom I thought I’d tolerated. Morgan could only dream I’d stand in line an entire night for her. I used to get furious whenever she sent me on a tampon run if it was past nine at night.