12. Lucy

Chapter 12

Lucy

M y eyes fluttered open. The sun glowed through the window, and much to my relief, my migraine had simmered down to a dull ache.

I ran my hands into my hair, pressing my palms against my eyes lightly as I took a slow, deep breath.

I would be okay.

This was not an emergency room level migraine. It should fade away with some more Tylenol, a strong cup of coffee, and maybe more rest. At least, I hoped so.

What had now become a familiar warmth radiated from the space next to me, as if I had been cuddling up to a giant heating pad all night.

Spencer.

My heart swelled when I flashed back to last night and how he’d taken care of me.

“Mornin’,” his voice rumbled from his chest, deep and gravely, and his eyes were shadowed beneath as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better. The medicine helped. But mostly, it was having you here with me. Thank you.”

“Of course. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

He reached for me, brushing the hair over my shoulder as he studied my face. The light touch of his hand sent a warming shiver through me, and I smiled.

“Yeah, so vomiting is always my favorite way to end a fun evening. I bet you weren’t expecting to wake up to that.”

For some reason, I didn't feel embarrassed. He’d been so efficient, matter of fact, and caring about everything he’d done for me. Never once had he been disgusted or grossed out about anything that happened, and it meant the world.

My headaches had been part of my life since I was a teenager, and they weren’t going away. There weren’t a lot of men who could handle it—at least none that I’d ever been with could. Something about him soothed me. He’d been a calming presence when I needed him the most and I would never forget it.

Low laughter rumbled next to me. “If you can joke around, then I guess I have to believe you’re really feeling a bit better.”

“There’s no more danger of throwing up,” I informed him. “I’m down to a normal human headache now.”

“That’s good. You had me worried.”

“I’m sorr—totally not sorry,” I joked to cover my constant need to apologize for myself.

“Nice catch. No apologies. Stay put. Close your eyes and rest. I’m still on duty.”

“What?”

“You’re not up to one hundred percent yet, so I’m taking care of you today. And before you even think of protesting—it’s non-negotiable.”

“Oh—okay. I could use more sleep.” I was not about to argue with him. If he wanted to take care of me, I would let him. “The sun woke me up. What time is it anyway?”

“Late. Almost noon. I’m going to grab you some more Tylenol, then you’re going back to sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” I was going for a humorous tone, but it came out like Marilyn again, soft and breathy.

His eyes heated, and he ran the back of his hand down my cheek before getting up. “Rest.” A soft smile traced across his face as he looked down at me, then bent to kiss my forehead softly.

Oh my.

I knew he was an affectionate man because, since we got here, I had noticed him holding it back a lot. I had seen him reach out to touch me and then pull away too many times to count.

He came back with a glass of—was that tea? And the Tylenol bottle.

“This is only cold tea, not iced. But you said caffeine would help, right? I’ll make coffee and breakfast when you wake up again.”

I sat up in bed and took the glass. “Thank you.” I swallowed the two offered pills and finished the tea.

When I returned the glass, our hands touched, and I shivered. “Sleep, sweetheart,” his tender, whispered voice had my heart racing. I was falling for him and amazed at how fast it was happening.

But was it fast when I’d known him since we were children?

It didn’t matter.

My feelings for him were growing regardless of such things as time, logic, or what anyone would think of me if I came out of this cabin in love with Spencer Cassidy.

Last night, when he said he was not a touchy-feely man, I almost laughed in his face. However, the thought that maybe it was me who made him want to be this way astounded me whenever I contemplated it. Physically, we were holding back, but emotionally, where it truly counted, we were moving at a pace so swift that it blew my mind.

After a few minutes of watching him move about the space, adding a log to the fire, water to the kettle on the stove for coffee, and all the little things that would take care of us during our stay, I drifted off to sleep.

This time I woke to the moonlight through the window, smiling when I saw Spencer sitting in the chair across from the sofa bed reading a book.

“How are you feeling?” He said once he noticed I was awake.

“A bit better, thankfully.”

“About that—I did something.”

“What?” I sat up, looking around. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, nothing bad.” He gestured to the edge of the bed, where a bathing suit was draped across the corner. “I have a few pots of water simmering on the stove. I’m going to run you a bath and wash your hair for you. The swimsuit is new; the tags are still on it. What can I say? Charlotte likes to shop.”

“Spencer…”

He held up a hand. “Then you can float, okay? Just like you told me. Stay put for now, though. You should eat first. I’ll make some toast.”

In the kitchen, he added bread to a pan on the stove, poured coffee from a thermos, and grabbed the Tylenol before coming back to me.

I smiled, half in shock, thanking him without words as I took them.

I owed him so many tacos—infinity tacos—tacos in numbers too great to count—for the rest of his life.

God, how I really wanted him to be mine.

My mind kept returning to last night. I would never forget a single detail of his face as he cared for me, so gentle, so worried. For the first time in years, hope bloomed in my heart. Real hope, not the kind you fool yourself with. But an actual belief that Spencer and I could be good for each other. My soul swelled with feelings that I thought had long since died.

“Are you still dizzy?” he asked, his face filled with worry. I smiled to put him at ease.

“Not anymore.” I sipped coffee as he returned to the kitchen to finish the toast.

“Eat,” he said after handing me a plate. I set it in my lap and took a bite. He watched me intently as if trying to discern whether I was truly feeling better or trying to make him think I was so he wouldn’t keep fussing over me. “You look better,” he concluded, tipping his head to the side. “But I’m still taking care of you tonight. Last night was bad. I was worried sick about you.”

“I’ll let you take care of me,” I began, holding up a hand when he opened his mouth to interrupt.

“But?” He drawled as his lips tipped up in a grin.

“But.” I continued with a decisive nod, determined to make him agree. “I’m not used to being taken care of like this except for by my mother. I’m feeling overwhelmed right now—a good overwhelmed, the best overwhelmed. I want you to agree right now that you’ll let me take care of you whenever you need it. However, I want to do it. Please.”

“You’ve taken care of me already, Lucy. I feel like we’ve fallen into that pattern naturally, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but I appreciate you taking care of me last night more than words can express, so I had to say my intentions out loud.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice deep, rumbly, and brimming with emotion he was trying to hold back. You intend to take care of me.”

“I do.”

“Then I should let you know that I have a lot of intentions when it comes to you.”

“Like what?" My whispered question danced in the air between us.

“First of all, I intend to take care of you. I want you well again.”

His nearness made my head spin. He did not attempt to hide that he was watching me and liked what he saw. We had an undeniable magnetism, and fighting it was nearly impossible.

I gripped the blanket in my fist to hold myself back. Every instinct I had screamed at me to throw myself into his arms. That this was right, this was necessary. This was everything I’d ever needed. But even though I trusted them, I couldn’t follow them. Not yet.

“Finish your toast, sweetheart. Come to the bathroom when you finish. I’ll start the bath.”

I watched him walk away with a rekindled flame of hope burning into my heart.