Page 83 of Resisting Isaac

The thought of it makes my throat tight.

I take a breath.

Then walk over and brush a piece of hair off her cheek. She looks so sweet and innocent when she’s asleep and has her claws retracted.

Whatever this is, there’s no point in making myself sick over it—it’s too late to stop it anyway.

“Sleep tight, spitfire,” I whisper, more to myself than her.

I text Antonio a quick list for the hands to get handled and let him know I’ll check in later.

When I crawl in bed beside Elena, I suspect I’m putting myself at risk for contracting her stomach virus. But I don’t care.

This woman has already infected me in every way that matters.

CHAPTER THIRTY

elena

Iwake up to the smell of coffee again. But this time, it’s laced with something warmer. Familiar. Pine and fabric softener.

Comfort.

Isaac.

The bed is empty, but his presence lingers. I sit up too fast and immediately regret it when my stomach flips.

Not a full somersault like earlier. Just a mild protest.

Still, it’s enough to snap me back to reality.

I shouldn’t be here.

The position of the sun and the golden glow through the window tells me it’s dinner time. I missed the table read and today’s scene blocking. I know exactly what that leads to. Comments that I’m flaky or a diva that somehow make their way to the tabloids. A younger, cheaper actress coming in to replace me when they kill my character off the show. Been there, got murdered by that.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pull on my shoes on.

This isn’t what I do.

I don’t let men tuck me in. I don’t take days off. I sure as hell don’t melt into cowboy beds and wake up thinking about what it would be like if he were here to snuggle. I glance at the other side of the bed. It’s rumpled enough, leading me to believe snuggling might have occurred without my consent.

I’m halfway down the hallway when I nearly collide with him.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug in one hand, his hair still a little messy, eyes tired and warm.

“Hey,” he says softly, setting the coffee on the counter. “You feeling better?”

I force a smile and backpedal toward the door. “Totally fine now. Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Elena—”

“Really.” I cut him off with a shake of my head and an overly bright grin. “I feel a million times better. Stomach bug must’ve just run its course.”

He eyes me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying.

Which I am.

Sort of.