Page 21

I wake up to the sound of a hacking cough in the room across the hall. I lie there for a moment, waiting to see if I imagined it, but when Beau coughs again, I push the covers off and pad across the icy wood floors to the guest room.

The door is closed, and for a moment, I hesitate.

I shouldn’t feel weird going into his room.

We’re married , after all, but I feel it, nonetheless.

I know what he will look like wrapped in flannel sheets, with messy hair and pillow-creased cheeks.

I know how he will feel—soft, overheated skin, coated in a sheen of perspiration.

I know how he will smell—like musk and leather.

I know everything about him except whether he will want me in that room.

My hands shake as I knock on the door, and the coughing inside stops. Time stops, really. I can hear my breathing and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

They’re so loud, I’m surprised I’m able to make out the rough voice on the other side of the door.

“Elsie?”

It sounds sleepy, husky, and it has that particular quality that Beau has when he’s sick. Almost boyish and as close to fragile as he ever sounds. It always makes my heart soften, and this time is no different.

“Can I come in?” I ask, and hold my breath as I wait for his response.

“Yeah, Els, you can come in.”

The bedside lamp flicks on as I open the door, illuminating the room in a warm, golden glow.

It makes everything feel soft, hazy. Beau is propped against the headboard, his hair in disarray, the blankets twisted around his legs.

He’s always been a heavy sleeper, barely moving at all, while I’ll toss and turn all night.

I wonder if he doesn’t sleep as well without me either.

“Did my coughing wake you?” he asks, his voice like sandpaper.

My heart squeezes in my chest. Just a few hours ago, he literally walked through a snowstorm to get home to me, and now he’s coughing in bed because of it.

I shake my head, and he manages a tired, barely coherent smile.

“Liar.”

“Maybe,” I say, walking farther into the room, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

When I get close enough to touch him, I reach out slow enough for him to pull away.

When he doesn’t, his eyes that look almost black in this light never leaving me, I press the back of my hand to his forehead.

It’s hot, clammy, making me suck in a breath between my teeth.

My eyes lock on his. They’re hazy, unfocused. “You’ve got a fever.”

He nods, his movement slow, sluggish, but his gaze remains heavy on me. It makes my skin tingle, sends goose bumps rushing down my spine. “I started feeling sick at dinner.”

Swallowing against the feeling, I push down on his shoulder, trying to ignore the firmness of it beneath my palm, the way the muscles bunch and flex, hard as granite. “Lie down. I’m going to get medicine.”

“Lying down makes the cough worse,” he drawls sleepily, voice rough as sandpaper.

“Mmm,” I say, and apply pressure to his shoulder again.

He must really not be feeling well, because he bends beneath it, sliding down onto his pillow.

His eyelids flutter, sleep pulling him under.

I can’t help but run my hand through the thick mass of his dark hair, pushing it off his clammy forehead.

Even like this, flushed from fever, he looks beautiful.

Bending down so he can hear me, I say, “I’ll be right back.”

I swear I feel a phantom touch on my back as I turn, fingertips pressing into the dimples above my waistband, but I don’t look back, don’t linger.

Instead, I slip out of the room, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.

I head into my bathroom and dig through the cabinets, looking for medicine.

Back in Utah, I always kept the medicine cabinet fully stocked.

A simple cold could ruin a whole week of rehearsals and classes if I didn’t tackle it quickly.

I haven’t been as good about stocking it since moving, but luckily, I find a box of cold and flu medication that isn’t expired. It should get us through the night and into tomorrow. By then, the roads should be clear enough for a trip to the drugstore.

After snatching the box, I pad into the kitchen to make tea.

Beau is strictly a coffee man. The habit starts early for ranchers, I guess, due to the early hours.

Even back in high school, he drank at least two cups of black coffee every morning before school.

I, however, have never been much for coffee.

It always makes me jittery, something that isn’t especially helpful for a dancer.

So instead, I usually have tea or matcha in the mornings, and even when I was at my worst mentally, I was never without tea.

It makes it easy to find some now. I find a bag of peppermint and brew it, then make sure to load it up with honey before heading back into the guest room.

Beau is still asleep, his breathing heavy, a wheezing sound pulling from his chest. I almost hate to wake him, but the way his breathing sounds, I know it’s only a matter of time before he starts coughing again, and once it starts, it’s harder to stop.

I stand at the foot of the bed for a long moment, considering what I should do, hot tea steaming in the cold air around me, the heat of the cup seeping into my chilled skin.

Beau and I handle sickness very differently.

He’s a natural caretaker, and I am…not. But I’ve never had a problem taking care of him.

It comes easily. And it has always frustrated him to no end that I don’t let him do much for me when I’m sick.

But I don’t really enjoy being taken care of.

I don’t come from a family like Beau’s. My needs were always met, sure, but my parents don’t show their love the way the Jenningses do.

Still, I don’t know if Beau will want me to take care of him now. Not after our fight earlier, not after everything that’s happened the last few months. I don’t know where we stand, what I’m allowed to do for my husband, and I hate that.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, I decide I’ll give him the medicine and make sure he drinks the tea and lots of water before he passes out again. And then I’ll head back to my room across the hall. But I won’t close the doors behind me, just in case he needs me again.

Slowly, I make my way over to the side of the bed and set the tea and medicine on the bedside table.

I let my hand fall to his shoulder, palm smoothing over the slope of it.

He’s always been muscular. His is not the kind of body honed from hours in the gym, but the kind that speaks to months and years of physical labor.

But now, he’s bigger, like he’s been working more than usual the last few months.

I can imagine it easily. While I secluded myself in this house and tried to heal so no one would see how broken I was, Beau drowned his sorrows in hard work.

I used to do the same with dance. We’re so different in so many ways, but that’s something we’ve always had in common.

A little pang goes through me at the loss of it now. One more way we’ve changed into people we barely recognize.

Shoving the thought away, I gently nudge his shoulder. “Beau, wake up,” I whisper softly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

He blinks blearily at me, confusion etched into the lines of his face. “Elsie baby, I can’t right now. I don’t feel too great.”

My lips roll together to keep from laughing. “Your medicine, Beau. I have your cough medicine.”

He blinks again, as if he’s trying to clear his vision and mind at the same time. “Medicine?”

“You have a fever,” I say. “And a cough. You need to take this medicine and drink some tea.”

He rolls his face into the pillow, his words muffled. “Don’t make me drink the hot dirt water.”

This time I do laugh, and at the sound of it, he turns to face me once more, a sloppy smile on his face. “I love your laugh, Elsie. I wish you hadn’t stopped laughing.”

This sobers me, and sadness settles deep in my stomach. “Me too.”

“But you’re laughing again. That’s good.” He pushes himself up onto an elbow, and then half sits, half reclines against the headboard. “You’re coming back to me.”

I swallow against the lump forming in my throat, wanting to press a hand to the tightness in my chest. “Yeah, Beau, I’m going to come back to you.”

He smiles again. “Good.”

I pick up the medicine and put two pills in his hand. “You need to take these. They’ll make you sleepy, but they’ll make you feel better.”

His tired eyes settle on me. “I feel better now that you’re here.”

“Then imagine how much better you’ll feel after the medicine.”

“Probably good enough to put a baby in you,” he drawls, and then looks at me pointedly. “Oops, too late.”

A laugh barks out of me, loud in the quiet of the night. “You’re delirious.”

His grin hitches higher, the same one he wears when he’s drunk and handsy. The one that always somehow leads to me with my pants off. “Maybe.”

I shake my head at him, fighting a smile. “Take your medicine, Beau, and drink your hot dirt water. I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait,” he says, his tone more serious, a little desperate. His eyes settle on mine. “Stay with me. Please.”

It’s the please that does it. No, that’s a lie. I would have stayed without the please . All I needed was an invitation.

“Okay.”

His shoulders relax, losing tension I hadn’t even noticed had stiffened them, and he pats the spot beside him.

I walk around the foot and climb beneath the blankets.

The sheets are cool against my legs. Even when it’s freezing, I can’t sleep in pants.

I hate the way they feel twisted against my legs, so I always end up in shorts or just an oversized tee.

Tonight, thankfully, I’m in shorts, but I don’t miss the way Beau’s gaze travels the expanse of my legs as I slide into bed.

It makes my nerve endings catch fire.

I really can’t be thinking like this in bed with my sick husband.