“Was there an infected?” he asked.
“No,” she sniffed. Then she sniffled. Then she gave in and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
With a scowl he grabbed her, hands beneath her arms, towing her out of the pile of blankets she’d bundled around herself. He dragged her onto his lap and held her close. A palm settled on one of her cheeks. His skin felt blessedly cool against her fevered face. “You feel hot.”
She felt awful, truly, deeply awful. And it was all his fault.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” he asked.
“No.”
“No?”
She swallowed hard. It felt like shoving down broken glass. “No.”
Nick held her tight and she sat there too tired and sore to care. There was no fight left in her. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later.
“I’m sorry I was away so long,” he said.
He smelled good, as if he’d just washed. Tomorrow she’d hate him again, but right now she burrowed in and laid her cheek against his chest. Taking what comfort she could get wherever she could get it. His hand rubbed over her back and the side of his face rested against the top of her head.
“You really went through the place,” he said. “I’ll leave you a note next time. Okay?”
No. Jerk. She sniveled as quietly as she could.
“Come on, Ros. Talk to me. I can’t stand it when you don’t talk to me.” His hand slipped beneath her chin and he tipped his head, studied what had to be her disaster of a face. “Please?”
Her bottom lip trembled. She hated it when that happened. She blinked furiously, fighting back the tears. Trying to win the battle. Instead she lost the war.
“You left me alone,” she blubbered, breaking down for about the hundredth time. She shoved her face into his shirt. If she got snot on it so much the better—he deserved far, far worse.
Nick grunted and grabbed her flailing fist, pulled her tighter against him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. So sorry.”
His hand smoothed over her hair, stroking her. He let her cry herself out. He murmured stuff to her all the while. How sorry he was. How brave she was. How he didn’t mind she’d trashed the place. He even hummed to her. Some folky-sounding song she didn’t know.
“I hate you,” she said eventually, because it needed saying. And she did hate him, with all her heart.
“I know.” Funny, he didn’t sound the least upset about it.
“I really do.”
“Yes,” said the patronizing, abandoning son of a bitch.
“Never hated anyone as much as I hate you.” Roslyn pulled up his shirt and wiped her face clean on it. As clean as it could get without the benefit of soap and water. Nick made a noise of resignation or something and pulled the black T-shirt off over his head. He held it up to her face, covering her nose.
“Blow.”
She did. Noisily. “My head hurts.”
“I bet it does.”
“It wasn’t fair, leaving me here like this. What was it, some kind of emotional manipulation?”
“No.” Lots of lines creased up his forehead. “Course not. I just needed to grab a few things in town.”
“What if you hadn’t come back?”
“I was always coming back,” he said in no uncertain terms. His overconfident tone of voice peeved her no end.
“You might not have.”
“Roslyn, trust me. I was always coming back. I will always come home.”
“This isn’t home.” She sniffed again, so he selected a new piece of shirt and held it to her face. “No, I’m okay.”
He sighed and set the shirt aside. She sat on his lap, snuggling against his bare skin. The man felt like a heater.
“Don’t do it again.” Her ear pressed against his chest where his heart thudded away. Very evenly. Strong. Maybe he wouldn’t be dying anytime soon. Still, she couldn’t risk it. Right now, her life depended on his.
“Ros …”
“I mean it.”
“Because you won’t leave me alone again.”
“Roslyn …”
“Promise.” She demanded. Pleaded. Whatever.
He set his hands on the floor and moved in close, much closer than before, going nose-to-nose with her. “Do you really hate me?”
Her poor, tired mind dithered. “It’s beside the point.”