18. Delilah

Chapter 18

Delilah

" W e're pushing the deadline back, is everyone in agreement with that?"

I nod at my boss, wishing I was anywhere but this boardroom right now when the pulsing behind my eye only starts to become stronger. Blearily, I blink, noticing the small, shapeless silver blobs marring my vision.

Unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, I take a sip of cool water, but it's futile. I've got a bloody migraine coming on.

Running my thumb along my brow bone in an attempt to soothe the deadly ache, I try to remain as professional as possible without slouching or ruining my carefully applied makeup. But all I really want to do is lie down and close my eyes.

My bosses and I wrap up our weekly Tuesday meeting within the hour, but still, I have to trudge back to my desk and finish out the rest of the working day in agony.

The blue light from my computer taunts me, as do the printed-out manuscripts sitting in front of me, their words meshing together, piercing my brain with tiny, very painful, pinpricks.

I pop a painkiller with a glug of water, but it does nothing. I roll my neck when the static burn begins to slip down the left- hand side, but it does nothing. I close my eyes, wishing for a moment of reprieve, but it does nothing, other than make me feel more like I'm going to vomit.

By the time five pm ticks around I'm a shaking, face like a white sheet, mess.

Leaving the office and catching the tube home is all of a bit of blur. I spend most of my time gripping onto the plastic edges of my seat, feeling extremely nauseous while the carriages sway and the scent of too sweet perfume and human body odour permeates my nose.

Once in the safe confines of my apartment I dump my handbag on the sofa, kick off my heels haphazardly and practically sprint to the toilet. The contents of my lunch leaves my stomach forcefully, plus that chocolate bar I nibbled on hoping the sugar would give me a boost.

Wiping my mouth with some toilet paper, I rest my cheek against the cool, porcelain seat. My legs have gone fully numb beneath me, but the continuous pulsing in my head threatens to upturn my stomach again, so I close my eyes and stay where I am.

I don't know how long I'm out for, but I come too splayed out across my bathroom floor, body weak, head heavy, mouth dry and disgusting tasting.

On hands and knees, I crawl back to my living room, reaching for my mobile phone and flinching at it's too bright light.

I open my thread of text messages, clicking on the contact name at the top, and start to type with shaky hands.

Me: I have the world's worst migraine… don't think I'll be able to make my swimming lesson tomorrow xx

His reply is instant.

Grey: fuck swimming. Are you okay? Xx

Me: not really xx

Grey: do you want me to come over? Xx

Me: Yes, please xx

Warmth bubbles beneath my sternum as I watch Grey double tap and heart my last message. It burns my mind to do so, but I can't stop myself from scrolling back up to our previous messages after our museum date two weeks ago.

I'd headed straight to the bathroom after Grey had dropped me off, stripping and soaking myself in a tub full of fragrant bubbles. I tingled all over from our escapade in the back of the car – my lips red from kissing, my core sore in the best way possible. After spilling my guts to Grey in the middle of an exhibit, I felt emotionally drained too.

I felt like a layer of me had been stripped off, left raw and vulnerable to be picked apart. But Grey hadn't run away, instead he'd gripped me all that tighter, holding me together until I felt steady again.

I felt comfortable around him – like myself.

Grey's presence is simply addictive.

He'd made it clear he wanted to chat, to get to know me more, but he didn't want to pressure me. I appreciated that more than he knew. But I couldn't stop thinking about him, picturing us together, wondering what he was doing.

I was terrified to plunge straight in, headfirst, to whatever we may be. But Grey made me feel safe, able and wanted.

I rang him on the Sunday morning afterward, butterflies taking flight in my stomach once more when I heard the smooth crackle of his voice. He'd been on the train, on the way to his weekly family Sunday dinner, so we couldn't talk for long – mainly because our network kept cutting out – but we both knew with one phone call, I was actively shortening that space between us, willing to explore the connection we have.

Three weeks have passed since then.

Every plan Grey and I tried to make to see each other again appeared to fall through like a flimsy house of cards; my work at the publishing house piled on an almost completed book manuscript which needed to be edited at the quickest of convenience and I was the unlucky candidate chosen for the job, while Grey had to take time off from his job to complete a refresher swim teacher course.

The only thing we had to keep us both going were our nightly phone calls. Even if my eyes were often bleary in the morning, and I had to knock back an extra espresso shot, because I was tired from staying up to late talking to Grey, it was worth it.

I'd finished up editing the manuscript last weekend, celebrating with a glass of white wine spritzer, and the reassurance that I'd be seeing Grey this week now our schedules had quietened down again.

Except, this wasn't quite how I imagined seeing him again.

When the sharp flecks of pain radiating through my skull get too strong again, I lock my phone and slump sideways across my sofa. I only mean to shut my eyes for a second, but there's suddenly an incessant knocking at my door and someone shouting my name.

"Delilah!"

I stand and stumble towards my door, blood pounding through my eardrums from standing up too quickly. Multicoloured orbs dot Grey's body standing in the hallway to my apartment. I blink to get rid of them, but they only multiple tenfold, making everything go fuzzy. I only realise I must have pitched forward, unbalanced, into him, when Grey grabs me by the waist with a choked out, "oof."

His palm comes up to touch my forehead. His flesh is cool, deliciously cool against the heated pain inside my skull. I can't help but lean into him, his familiar mint and chlorine fragrance kissing my skin.

"You've not got a fever, gorgeous, but you're as white as a sheet."

"Feel like shit," I admit, resting my cheek on Grey's chest so I can hear his heartbeat. He smells so good, he feels so good, he—

His answering chuckle rumbles through me. "Come on then, let's get you inside. Bed or the sofa?"

My answer slip from my lips without much thought. "Bed, please. I want a cuddle."

Grey kisses the top of my head gently, manoeuvring us until we're both inside and he can lock the door.

He walks us slowly to my bedroom, fingers skimming the waistband of my pencil skirt. "Do you want to get changed? This skirt can't be too comfortable to sleep in."

I wince at the pain lancing behind my eyes. "My pyjamas are in top drawer."

Perching me on the edge of my bed, Grey pads to my top drawer, returning with a silk rose coloured camisole and a matching pair of shorts, hemmed with lace.

"Thank you." I peer down to watch my shaky fingers fiddle with the pearlescent buttons on my blouse.

"May I?"

"Please." His nimble fingers quickly undo the row holding my blouse together, peeling it from my shoulders and then unclipping my bra at my nod. Whether I'm ill or not, I don't want to be sleeping in fucking underwire.

With me sitting, and Grey standing, my face is inches from his groin, so it doesn't go unnoticed by me when his cock swells as he pulls my pyjama camisole over my head, knuckles brushing the sides of my breasts.

"Ignore it," Grey remarks with a smile. "All he's thinking about is boobs."

I giggle, quickly turning into a gasp when the temples zap with pain. "I'm sorry I'm not calling you over here tonight for something more… fun."

"Don't be silly." Grey supports my weight while I stand, grabbing tight a hold of his corded forearms while he peels my pencil skirt from my waist. "I want to be here when you need me, Delilah. Any time you need me."

Rising on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his. "I'm so grateful you came into my life, Grey."

"The feeling is mutual, gorgeous."

My smile pulls at the sensitive skin around my temples, but I can't help myself, not when Grey is around.

"Do you want a painkiller?"

Slipping under my bedcovers, I silently count on my fingers how long it's been since I took my last tablet. More than enough hours ago. "Yes, please. And some water."

Draping my skirt over the back of my vanity chair, so it doesn't get crumpled because he knows I hate that, Grey nods. "Anything else?"

"No, thank you. Wait—actually…" The saliva in my mouth has already dried up seeing Grey move around so effortlessly in my space, but then he's gripping the door frame of my bedroom, and turning to peer at me over his broad shoulder, causing my heart rate to skyrocket. There's something so masculine about the move. All he needs to do now is fully face me, reach up and allow his shirt to rise a little, giving me a glimpse of his flat stomach and his happy trail leading right down to his—

"Delilah?"

"There's a pack of gel migraine strips in the bathroom cupboard, could you bring me one?"

I close my eyes for a minute while Grey is away, glad to feel the nausea subsiding now I'm laying down flat. The whoosh of my blood is still audible through my ears, but—

Crash!

"Shit! Sorry!" Grey calls over the sound of plastic bottles tumbling, while I wince in pain from the sudden noise.

"What did you drop?" I ask when he returns, a litter of items clutched in his arm.

Grey smiles at me boyishly, all dimples. "Nothing. Here's your water and migraine strip."

Peeling off the sticky back, I sigh in contentment when the migraine strip makes contact with my skin, sitting deliciously cool on my forehead.

Grey fiddles with the painkiller blister pack, popping out a single white capsule and handing it over for me to swallow down gladly.

Licking the water from my dry lips, I wave my hand toward my still open blinds. The August sunlight shines through the slats, pooling across my carpet with its buttery warmth. Normally, I'd be more than happy to soak it all in, but not when it's burning my retinas, slicing through my brain like spokes.

I squint my eyes against the pain. "Could you close the blinds too, baby?"

For a second I worry I'm asking too much of him, but Grey just grins, padding over to close my blinds and shroud the room in darkness.

"Thank you," I whisper, feeling my bed jostle, the duvet being pulled back and a solid, warm body press against mine.

"You're welcome," Grey whispers back just as softly, placing a kiss to the smooth ball of my shoulder.

When a wave of fatigue threatens to pull me under, I'm unable to fight it. My migraine is slowly subsiding with the help of the cool gel strip and painkiller, but I still feel ridiculously weak, my body heavy.

Slinging my arm over Grey's trim waist, I turn into the safety of his body, breathing in his signature mint and chlorine scent.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," I breathe, already slipping into the clouds before I can listen for his reply.

When I awake, it's to a flip in my stomach and bile in my mouth.

I rip off the duvet, sprint to the bathroom and empty more of my stomach. I didn't even think that was possible with my previous bout of vomit, but water and spit fill the basin at a rapid rate.

Hands gently pull the strands of my hair into a makeshift ponytail, keeping it out of my face while I groan, shivering all over.

"Get it all out."

I shiver again, burying my head in my hands at the knowledge Grey has just watched me vomit my insides out… Not attractive in the slightest.

"Can you stand?"

Nodding, I wipe my mouth and flush, pushing myself up onto my wobbly legs.

"Do you want a shower running?"

Through watery eyes, I peer up at Grey. "Do I smell?"

"No, gorgeous." He rubs his hands up and down my arms soothingly. "Just thought it might make you feel a bit better."

"I don't think I can stand for that long. I just want to lie back down."

"Come on then."

"Let me brush my teeth first."

Grey chuckles softly behind me, hands clamping over my satin encased hips to keep me steady, while I vigorously scrub at my tongue. I glance back at him in the water spotted mirror, noticing his bed hair, his lack of shirt and…

"Oh my god," I moan around my toothbrush, swiping at the dark racoon style eyes staring back at me. "Look at me!"

"Look at what?" Grey pinches my wrist, stopping me from rubbing my eyelids too hard.

I spit, gesturing wildly to my reflection. "That!"

"All I see is my gorgeous girl."

I harrumph, but really my heart is stuttering, suddenly warm all over.

Reaching with shaky hands off to the side, I grab my bottle of makeup remover, dousing a couple of cotton rounds and begin to wipe away the mascara flecks buried deep within the depths of my tired eyebags.

"Here. Let me."

I spin slowly in Grey's hold, shutting my eyes and lips when he gently glides the cotton pad over my face reverently. It feels so domestic, and I wait for the feelings of doubt to creep in, for my brain to start spiralling, shit scared.

But nothing except contentment and happiness comes bubbling to the surface.

Once my face is bare, I drag Grey back to bed, half-heartedly fluffing my pillow so I can sit up.

"Feeling any better?"

"A bit. Still weak, though… I feel like it's such a waste of the day."

"What?" Grey fluffs his own pillow, pulling me into his side. "Resting?"

"Yeah."

"Resting isn't a waste, Delilah. It's your body's way of telling you it's had enough. I used to think the same way, but then I had an accident, broke my foot up and tore a ligament, and I was forced to rest. I had to listen to my body, not my head."

"How old were you when you had your accident?"

"Twenty-one."

"I'm not very good at it," I admit. "The whole… listening to my body, not my head, thing."

"Mhm, and you work yourself too hard," Grey agrees, sounding like my sister. "It's probably what brought on your migraine. It's okay to rest when you need to rest and honour your body, Delilah, instead of constantly pushing yourself."

I stew on Grey's words while we lie there, hands intertwined, his chin propped up on the crown of my tangled locks, the room silent other than our breathing. He's right; I am too hard on myself, always have been, pushing myself until I'm the best I can possibly be at something. For years I've called it ambition, drive, but now it's at the detriment of my own health and mental well-being.

I'd work long hours to avoid coming home to an empty apartment, order in takeout so I didn't have to face plating up food just for one person.

I could have changed my behaviour, I could have tried harder to find a relationship, a person to fill my empty space, someone to offer another plate for me to cook for.

But I didn't because I was too scared. Too scared to make that leap.

All the men I was meeting in pubs and bars, even sometimes at work, they didn't show me they we're worth making the leap for .

Except for Grey.

He's worth it.