Page 49 of Take the Blame (Seaside Mergers #3)

Chapter Twenty-Six

ALTA

“Cucumbers please!”

“You’re eating something other than cucumbers, Alta.”

“But I want cucumbers,” I said. “With hot sauce!”

He blinked at me, then gave the pot he’d been working on for the last hour another stir. I guess he was ignoring the request then. Which was okay.

After the doctor came last night, Harper had been a lot better. Gone was his uncharacteristic grouchiness and back was the always grinning wise guy that I knew and… yeah.

His change in tone had come promptly with the conclusion of the doctor’s visit.

“All signs point toward a respiratory infection. The lab is pretty quick, so I’ll have these results for you by the morning,” Dr. Hannigan, the doctor who Harper had found to do a house call had said.

“In the meantime, take this one-time steroid to jump start the treatment process before bed. Once we have your diagnosis confirmed, we will send a prescription to your nearest pharmacy.”

It wasn’t me, but the rigid body that sat beside me who loosed a breath as strong as a hurricane wind at the doctor’s words. “She’ll be alright?”

“She’s going to be just fine,” the doctor said, standing and starting to pack up his things.

I liked him, with his white hair and kind face.

Apparently, he treated Ceci at Seaside Private General back when she broke her hand.

“Lots of rest, lots of fluids, and no strenuous activities for the time being. If there are any problems, or if that cough starts to sound worse, X-rays might be in order. But if you keep a close monitor on her and she takes the entire course of medication, she’ll be back to normal in no time. ”

Harp had more questions. Way more than I thought to ask.

And as he peppered the doctor with all of them, careful not to leave a single stone unturned, I sank into his warmth, enjoying the feeling of his hand settled on my hip just under the waistband of my PJs, and the slow thumb he kept rubbing back and forth along my skin.

After walking the doctor out, he returned to my room.

For a second I thought I was going to get that frown he had sewn onto his face since the moment he first took my temperature.

But no. I got the full-blown Gus Harper grin instead as he held up this huge pink pill like he was a cat bringing its owner its kill.

“Okay sickie,” he said. “Are you going to cooperate, or am I going to have to pin you down?”

I smiled then. My head still hurt and I still felt like crap, but I felt lighter somehow. Better with the resurgence of his smile before we even got to the meds.

“I think we can work out an arrangement for both,” I said.

For a second, I paused. Praying the retort didn’t miserably fumble like my last attempts at levity. Harper just smiled, shaking his head as he approached my bedside. “Kinky girl, Boss. I always knew.”

I slept curled up next to him in my bed. His warm body stayed there through every shiver, his patient hands offering to help me at every turn. Wiping my sweat, changing my clothes, grabbing me tissues, and even guiding me to the bathroom to pee.

He wore some old clothes I’d stolen from my dad years ago, his own damp and dirty from my mess before.

And though I was asleep, I swore he stayed mostly awake.

His warm voice murmuring things I couldn’t make out through my slumber or chuckling deeply at something he watched on his phone, or just humming some small repetitive tune underneath his breath as he brushed my hair away from my face.

The test results Hannigan mentioned did indeed come through bright and early the next morning.

A respiratory infection, just like the doctor said, though it was quite a hit to learn that I was showing a few pre-Pneumonia symptoms. Apparently, going any longer with that fever could have caused some severe complications.

That little bit of knowledge had set Harper off, launching him into a full-blown interrogation on why I hadn’t called him or asked anyone for help.

But I didn’t seem to mind his grumpiness this time.

Not when he followed it up with the surprising act of finding my hairbrush and combing through the tangles of my hair.

Then mumbling to himself as he slowly, painstakingly, braided it all to the back the way he’d seen me do once or twice at his house.

Not when he’d come to my bedside with pills from the pharmacy and water and a bowl full of the tiny oranges that I loved.

Not when I woke up again to find the tissue pile beside my bed all cleaned up and the sound of the washing machine going and the smell of broth cooking on the stove.

No. I was just overreacting earlier, and he was just worried. I didn’t actually mind when Harper was being Gus, because I more than liked this man being around for me. I appreciated it so much and I felt guilty for being difficult when he was simply trying to take care of me.

Which is why I’d left my bed to be closer to him despite his protests that ‘ a few pills and a nap were not enough for me to be up and ready to run a marathon .’ Yeah, he’d gone there, the wise guy.

Still, the only true protest from him when I waddled into my living room to watch him cook was to “sit my ass down” before he quickly brought me a cup of tea and went back to work at his pot.

He’d been mostly quiet since then. Asking me periodically if I needed anything as I dozed in and out of sleep on the couch. So the sudden appearance of him beside my feet as they were propped up on the coffee table was a welcome surprise. His words were a larger, not as welcome one.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

I glanced at the bowl of neatly chopped cucumber slices he set down. When we were at his house I told him I liked to squeeze lime over top of them, and now a few wedges were tucked into the side of the bowl, My half-used bottle of hot sauce set beside it.

I straightened in my seat.

He was being nice. He was always nice, but that, coupled with those words were a dead giveaway. I knew a peace offering when I saw one.

“I thought you said these have no caloric function,” I said cautiously, a spiral of dread curling up into my stomach.

“Yeah.” He nudged the bowl closer. “But you like them and food won’t be ready for a while.”

My swallow hurt less than last night, but it was still pretty rough, my heart seeming to beat faster as I held his eyes. “Yeah, of course we can talk.”

Taking a seat beside me, he picked up my legs off the coffee table and replaced them onto his lap.

I was covered with the blanket from mid-waist to ankle, but I could still feel the heat of his hands through the fabric as he rested them on me, running his palms absently up and down my shins like he was nervous about something.

It made me nervous too.

“Harper?”

He lifted his head and all at once I wished he hadn’t. The look in his eye looked less playful, less light and more—I don’t know. I truly didn’t know what he was feeling. But whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t right.

“Alta, why did you say that yesterday? About me not liking you unless you were… you know.”

“Um.” Shoot . I knew it. I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I knew something was off with the way he looked at me. I just knew. And now I was stuck, because the one thing I didn’t know was the answer to that question. “I’m not sure. It just came out that way I guess.”

It was a lame answer. One that wasn’t even true.

But how could I tell him that I’d said it because I was feeling insecure about his attitude and at the moment it really did feel like he didn’t like me even though he was taking care of me.

Not when he was frowning and grumbling and not being himself.

It sounded childish even to my ears and the last thing I wanted to be in his eyes was childish or petty.

His silence didn’t do much for my confidence, and I could feel my thoughts and worries begin to spiral. Was he mad at me? Was he done with me? Could he not stand to be around someone who was both so sensitive and selfish?

The questions continued, and between my sickness and my dread, the only thing anchoring me to the room was his strong hands persisting on my leg.

“Can I ask you something?” he said again.

My mouth went dry. How could five measly words sound so intimidating? Especially spoken so controlled and patient .

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Have I changed much since you met me?”

“What?”

“I know what we’ve been doing lately has changed a lot between us, but has the person I am changed in this—I don’t know, almost year, that we’ve known each other? Have I changed to you?” he asked.

I didn’t even need to think about it. No. From the first moment I met him, Harper had been Harper. Says what he wants, does what he wants, is what he wants. And takes me as I am.

And I told him that much.

“No. Not at all,” I said. Still, this felt like a set up. Not a purposeful one, but one I was falling into, nonetheless. I shook my head.

“And have I ever said that I don’t like you? Or stopped you from coming around? Or hell, said a bad word about you?” he asked.

There was a slow but steady rise of agitation and something else in his voice that made me look at him. He was looking at me too, waiting for my response.

All I could do was shake my head.

He sighed deep, his eyes closing as he tipped his head back. “Can I tell you something, sweetheart?”

“Why do you keep asking permission, Harper?” I pleaded. Because each time felt like a tiny little gunshot to my aching heart.

He looked at me warily. “Cause… You’re a little sensitive when you’re sick, Boss.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I said. “I’m strong enough, Harper.”

“That was never a doubt in my mind. I just don’t know if you care to hear me.”

“I care.”

“And so do I,” he said. Frustration, agitation, anger emanating from his low voice. “I’m not showing up wherever you are, striking up deals, and making an ass of myself at every turn because I don’t care. I care, Alta. I care a lot.”