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“You’re home?” I mumbled.
“Yes. I couldn’t stay away,” Oliver said, his voice a comforting balm in my haze of sickness.
He snapped on the lamp by my bedside, and I squinted as my eyes adjusted. Oliver was still dressed in the black pinstriped suit, white shirt, and silver tie he had left the penthouse in this morning. Worry lines creased his smooth features, and I hoped he wouldn’t catch my illness.
“I’m glad you’re home, but I’m sorry you cut your trip short,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I did what I needed to do. My partners found the perfect site. I was back at the airport in less than two hours.”
“You flew sixteen hours for me?” I asked, my heart aching at his sacrifice.
“Don’t be angry,” he said gently, sitting beside me and taking my hand. “I just care so much about you.”
“I’m not angry, but I don’t want you to get sick.”
“And I don’t want you to be sick.” He leaned down, placing a lingering kiss on my forehead. His lips were warm and comforting against my feverish skin. He stood up to get undressed, and I turned away from the light because it made my head throb. A few minutes later, he sat on the bed again, his concern palpable.
“Can I get you something? Did you eat today?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
I felt nauseated at the thought of food. “No, nothing.”
He pressed the back of his hand to my cheek. “You feel warm. You should drink something.”
“I’ve been drinking, but that’s all. I have no appetite. Brenda was very helpful today.”
He smiled. “I sent her home when I came in. She said she hopes you feel better.”
“She’s a nice lady,” I croaked.
“She likes you very much.”
“I like her too. Does she have children?” I asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“She was very maternal.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Let me get you some water at least.”
The bed gave as he stood up and switched off the light. I turned onto my back, watching his retreating silhouette illuminated by the hall light. He came back a few minutes later with a large glass of water, ice cubes clinking softly. He placed it on my nightstand.
“You should drink,” he said softly.
“I’m not thirsty,” I protested weakly.
Oliver frowned. “Humor me, please.”
With much effort, I sat up, and he handed me the glass, helping me tip it to my mouth. I drank greedily, not realizing how thirsty I really was. The cold water felt good as it soothed my tortured throat.
“Thank you,” I whispered, sinking back into the pillows.
“Anything for you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. He climbed into bed beside me, wrapping me in his warmth. “Try to get some rest. I’m here now.”
I nestled into his embrace, feeling safe and cherished despite my fever. As fatigue pulled me under, I realized how much his presence meant to me and how grateful I was for his unwavering love.
“I mean for everything. You must be exhausted,” I rasped.
“I slept on the plane.”
