Page 80 of Resisting Isaac

“I—uh—I need to go,” I say, breath already shallow, vision doing that shimmery tilt like the world’s been tipped sideways.

He stands. “Go where? You just—wait, are you okay?”

I sidestep his outstretched hand and practically sprint for the front door.

And then Ibarelymake it behind the house before I drop to my knees in the grass and heave up everything I just ate along with last night’s dinner.

My hair sticks to my cheek. My eyes water. My pride dissolves faster than the eggs now decorating Isaac’s flower bed.

Awesome. Really nailing the mysterious leading lady vibe.

I’m still bent over, palm braced against his house, when I hear boots crunch on gravel.

“Elena?”

I glance up, mortified, and probably still pale as hell.

He takes one look at me and winces. “Damn. I knew my cooking wasn’t great but I didn’t mean to poison you.”

I let out a weak groan and slump sideways until I’m sitting in the grass. “Your cooking didn’t do this.”

“Debatable.” He squats beside me, one big hand on my back. “Youdidrun out mid-chew.”

I blink up at him, throat raw, body shaking. “Still not worse than your hot springs cannonball.”

His grin is immediate. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I’m fine?—”

“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder. I’ll do it, and you’ll hate it because sick or not, I’ll definitely spank your ass on the way in.”

I glare, but the effort is weak. My stomach lurches again, and that’s enough for him.

He hooks his arms under my knees and behind my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I don’t argue this time. Mostly because Ican’t.

He carries me straight into the bathroom, flips the water on in the shower, and starts stripping off my clothes—not with heat, not with any kind of expectation. Just quiet focus, his jaw tight and eyes full of concern.

“You don’t have to?—”

“Iwantto,” he says, guiding me gently under the spray.

He’s still fully dressed, leaning in just enough to make sure the water isn’t too hot. His fingers work the shampoo into my hair like it’s a mission. I sag against the tile, weak and wrung out, but also weirdly enjoying this.

Once I’m clean, he wraps me in a towel and leads me down the hall—straight to his bed.

I freeze. “I can’t—I need to check in with Ivy, and I’m already behind on table reads and?—”

“And nothing.” His voice is firm. Calm. Unshakeable. “You’re not going anywhere. You're sick. You’re taking the damn day.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.

“I don’t take days off.”

“Well, congratulations.” He pulls back the covers and gestures. “Today’s your first.”

I stare at him, swaying slightly, and something in his expression softens.

He picks up his phone and starts typing. “Ivy’s getting a message right now. ‘Star actress needs a day. She’ll return fully feral tomorrow. Blame the huevos or the shitty cowboy cook.’”