Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
She groans but slowly pushes herself up. “I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah, well, tough. You need to eat.” I hold the spoon out to her.
Her glare is weak at best. “I can do it myself. I’m not a child.”
I raise a brow. “You sure about that? You kind of look like one at the moment.”
She swats at my arm, but there’s no real strength behind it. “Shut up.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
She jerks her shoulders. “This morning. I had a handful of gummy bears.”
My jaw clenches. “Just have a little bit. It’ll make you feel better.”
Her eyelids droop as she murmurs, “You’re really bossy, know that?”
Something tightens in my gut. “Please, Tate. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Once she manages a few bites and takes the meds, I shift beside her, resting against the headboard. It’s a surprise when she leans her head on my shoulder.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says softly. “I know you have practice.”
“It’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “Someone’s gotta stay and make sure you don’t pass out.”
She chuckles weakly, the sound barely audible. “Thanks. I think you were right about the soup. It helped.”
My lips brush the top of her head. “Hey, what are fake boyfriends for?”
Her lips curve into a small smile as her eyes flutter shut.
It’s always a surprise when she drops her guard. Even if it’s not entirely purposeful.
Holland is tough.
Fiercely independent.
It’s one of the things I like most about her. The girl can give just as good as she gets.
But right now, she’s letting me take care of her.
The strangest part of all this is that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
25
Holland
The sunlight streaming through the blinds is what wakes me. It’s soft and warm against my face. I blink, momentarily disoriented, until memories from the previous day come rushing back.
The fever.
The soup.
The feeling of Bridger’s steady presence after he discovered me curled up in his bed. My cheeks heat as I roll onto my side and pull the blanket tighter around me. I feel a million times better than I did yesterday, though a dull ache still lingers in my muscles. Only then does my stomach rumble, reminding me that I barely ate anything in the last twenty-four hours.
Movement beside me draws my attention, and I glance over to see Bridger sprawled out on top of the comforter, one arm slung over his eyes. His chest rises and falls steadily as the soft sound of his breathing fills the quiet room. It’s comforting in a way I can’t explain.
I swallow hard, my gaze lingering on him longer than it should.
I hate to admit just how great he was yesterday.
After finding me in his bed, he didn’t hesitate to jump in and take care of me. He made sure I ate, stayed by my side, and didn’t so much as complain once. My mind reels as a confusing mix of gratitude and fear swirls inside me.
Because as much as I liked it, as much as I liked him taking care of me… it terrifies the hell out of me.
This isn’t real.
Not in the way it feels like it is.
What I’ve learned is that relying on someone like this opens you up to all kinds of hurt.
Bridger stirs, his arm shifting as he cracks one eye open. “Caught you staring, Tate,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
I scoff, sitting up and tucking my legs beneath me. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sanderson. I was actually thinking about breakfast.”
With a grin, he sits up against the headboard. His hair sticks out in every direction, and the scruff on his jaw is more pronounced than usual.
He looks… good.
Too good.
“Liar. You were totally staring.”
“Only because you’re taking up most of the bed,” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.
With a chuckle, he stretches his arms over his head before letting them fall. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much,” I admit. “Must’ve been a twenty-four-hour thing. I’m fine now.”
“Good. Because you looked like death warmed over yesterday.”
I grab a pillow and smack him with it. “You should probably stop with all the flattery or it’ll go straight to my head.”
He laughs, catching the pillow before it can hit him again. “Hey, I’m just saying it’s nice to see some color in your cheeks. You had me worried.”
My laughter fades at the genuine concern in his voice, and I hesitate before admitting, “No one’s ever taken care of me like that.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.” I pick at the edge of the blanket, avoiding his gaze. “When I got sick as a kid, I had to deal with it myself. There wasn’t anyone to… do what you did.”
The room goes quiet, and when I finally force myself to look up, his gray eyes are steady and unwavering. “That’s messed up,” he says, his voice low. “No kid should have to take care of themselves like that.”