More footsteps. Heels clicking on wood. “Right this way, Zane.”
“Hey, Cinder. I’m going to pick you up now and carry you to the room. Are you okay with that?”
His arms slide around me. A soft “Here we go,” before being lifted up.
I don’t remember much other than the scent of his cologne on his neck where I rest my forehead. The feeling that I’m okay now. His repeated murmur of “I’ve got you.”
There’s the ding of the elevators.
Zane muttering “Thank you, I’ve got it from here.”
“But what about the event?” asks Zoey.
“I’ll call you in a few.”
The click of the door shutting and then a few seconds later the complete and utter softness of bed beneath me.
“Hold tight. I’m going to sit you up for a second and take your dress off. Are you okay with that?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
A zipper, a pull of fabric with my arms up, the freedom when my bra is unclasped, then two hands slowly lying me down onto cool, cold sheets.
Footsteps. The faucet running. More footsteps. The chill of a washcloth being placed on my forehead.
Then darkness.
The muted sounds of the television.
That’s what I hear first as I fight the grogginess that keeps pulling me under its blanket of comfort.
Hints of memories float. Zane. A doctor. Zane. Medicine. Zane. Sleep.
“Hey, you’re alive,” Zane’s soft murmur of a voice against the crown of my head and his arm tightening around my side is enough to startle me awake.
When my eyes flutter open it takes me a second to take it all in: the soft luxury of the hotel room, the night skyline twinkling in the windows beyond, and the feel of Zane’s body against mine.
“Hey,” I murmur and begin to sit up but he holds me in place.
“Sit tight a moment. You’re bound to be dizzy,” he says and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You scared me there for a bit.”
“What . . .?” I ask, full well knowing I was sick—the dull ache in my head and weird feeling in my body tells me that—but still wanting answers.
“Here, let me help you sit up.”
Zane helps pull me up to sit against the pillows piled along the headboard like he is. “You feeling any better?”
I nod. “Yes . . . just disoriented.”
“The doctor said this particular virus going around does that. He said it hits quick and hard, then is gone within forty-eight hours . . . so that means,” he says and looks at his watch, “you’ve got about twelve more hours to go.”
“Twelve?”
“Yes. You’ve definitely caught up on your sleep. I should have nicknamed you Sleeping Beauty and not Cinder.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back on the pillow for a beat to make my head stop swimming.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“No need to thank me.”
“Yes there is.” I turn my head on the pillow so I can look at him. “You brought me up here, you put me in pajamas, you called a doctor, you took care of me.”
“It’s not a big deal, you would have done the same for me.”
But you’re a guy, I want to say. Guys don’t do stuff like this.
“What about the events?” I ask, suddenly panicked.
“I had Zoey come up here and sit in here with you while you slept so I could do it, and then we postponed today until tomorrow so you could rest.”
“That must have cost you money to do. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Shush.” Another soft kiss to the top of my head. “We’ve been seeing so many people—shaking hands, hugging—going in and out of air conditioning from city to city. Getting sick was bound to happen to one of us. I’m just sorry that it was you.”
Tears fill my eyes and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m sick or because he’s being so nice, but I don’t have the effort to fight them and one slips down my cheek.
“Why are you crying?” he asks with a soft smile on his face and pulls me in against his bare chest as I try to reign in my sudden hurricane of emotion.
“You shouldn’t have stayed. You’re going to get sick,” I say against his chest.
“Whatever you have, I’ve already been good and well exposed to it.” The trail of his fingertip up and down my back. “Can I get you anything? I have some soup ready for you. Can make you a bath if you want. I even have some coloring books to color in.”
“Coloring books?” I chuckle and lean back so I can see. The nightstand he’s pointing to is covered in four or five coloring books and crayons.
He shrugs. “I promised the doctor I’d make you rest the full forty-eight so I was determined to keep you here and well . . . you can color in bed.”
There’s something about him saying that simple phrase without any sexual innuendo that catches my attention. And means the world to me.
“Bathroom,” I say after a minute of listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear.
“Let me—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, pushing him back as I take a minute to stand, steadying myself with my hand on the knob of the headboard. Then I walk to the open doorway where I find my toothbrush and the rest of my toiletries lined up on the counter and a fresh change of pajamas folded neatly beside them.