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An extreme version of laziness.
“Millie?” he called out in a panic. “Millie, where are you?”
A whine reached his ears.
“Mr. Fluffy?”
Another whine. Fuck. Spike ran toward the sound, coming to a stop as he saw Millie lying on her side in the hallway. There was vomit on the floor next to her and Mr. Fluffy was lying on his tummy, watching her.
Strangely, her handbag was by the dog’s feet.
“Shit, baby doll,” he murmured, coming closer and crouching next to her.
With a shaking hand, he reached out to touch her. She let out a small whimper.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
“Baby, what is it? Your head?”
“Yes.”
Shit. She needed her medication.
Mr. Fluffy let out another whine and nudged her handbag.
What the . . . then it struck him.
Had Mr. Fluffy gotten her handbag because he knew that her meds were in there?
Had he somehow realized that she had a migraine?
Nah. That was just crazy thinking. Although as Spike looked into the dog's eyes . . . he kind of thought that maybe it wasn’t so crazy.
“I’m going to pick you up, baby doll, and carry you upstairs.”
“Can’t. Move.”
“We have to move you. You can’t stay here.”
“Sick.”
“I know you are.”
“Sorry.”
Why was she apologizing? This wasn’t her fault.
She couldn’t help having a migraine. If anything, this was his fault.
He should have been here. Should have been watching her. Making sure that she rested and didn’t do too much.
Shit . . . it was probably all this excitement over her party.
“You have nothing to apologize for, baby doll,” he told her fiercely. “Daddy is going to pick you up, though. And carry you upstairs.”
Another whimper.
God. He felt awful for her. If he could’ve taken this pain on, he would have. Sliding his arm under her legs and around her back, Spike lifted her up, cradling her against his chest.
