Page 125 of Unwritten Rules

“I’ll drive myself—”

“You’ll do no such thing!” I stride across the foyer to where he’s dawdling by the front door. “You need a quick escape to avoid any pesky questions afterwards, yes?”

He nods unwillingly. “Yes, but—”

“Yes, but nothing.” I go up onto my tiptoes to drop a hint of a kiss on his long stubble. “Now, shoo. I’ll be in Wetherby’s quarters for the foreseeable future.”

I turn and, without a backwards glance, make for the kitchen. I’m almost at the corridor leading to Wetherby’s room when I’m pulled up short.

“And where’s my real kiss goodbye, wench?”

Nate spins me so I land in his waiting arms as his mouth lands on mine, taking it in a rough kiss. His tongue forces its way between my teeth, tangling with my own, and I strive to pull him even closer, if it were possible.

He pulls away, chuckling. “Now, that was a goodbye kiss.”

I arch a brow. “I look forward to your welcome back kiss.”

His mouth twists as he tries and fails to suppress a grin, tipping his head in farewell before giving me his back.

“I love you, Nathaniel.”

He stops, slowly pivoting on his heel with a broad, single-dimpled smile on his handsome face. “I love you too, Mila. I love you beyond words.”

Our eyes hold for a long moment before the sound of Wetherby stirring in his room draws my attention. I blow my lover a kiss, which he playfully catches and pockets, before going on into Wetherby’s room.

The man himself is trying to sit up in his bed. Attempting and failing, much to his consternation.

“For Christ’s sake, these damn pillows.”

I cross the room and grab the offending pillows, plumping them before depositing them at his back. “Better?”

He nods, his eyes still very glassy as his hands reach for mine.

“Oh, my God, Wetherby. Your hands are like ice.”

I slip a hand from his grasp and touch his forehead. “You’re burning up again.” Standing, I pat his hands when I place them on his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

Running to the first aid kit in the kitchen, I quickly find some medicine to reduce his fever, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and rush back to his bedside.

“Come on, then. Sit up a little, please.”

I help him up on his pillows, and he takes the medicine easily before drifting back to sleep.

I knew I was doing the right thing by staying.

Tugging my laptop from underneath Wetherby’s bed, where I’d left it earlier in anticipation of this, I set about writing the next chapter in my book.

The latest chapter is where my female protagonist has discovered that her life has been a lie. It’s a pivotal scene that sets the tone for the rest of the story, and I’m thrilled that the words are flowing from my fingertips right onto my keyboard.

I’m so intent on getting the scene right that I don’t hear the newcomer until she speaks.

“What are you doing here?”

Slamming the laptop shut, I jump to my feet, hand on my chest as though to calm my palpitating heart. “Christ, Zara. You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

She arches a pale blonde brow, placing her hands on her narrow hips. “I repeat. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

I can’t help but sigh. As grateful as I am to have been here for Wetherby, I didn’t sign up for a TED Talk with Zara Bitchface.