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“Layla?” That’s Hawk’s voice, and I roll my eyes up to look at him. “You’re awake.”
There’s no disguising the relief in his voice, and it makes me feel sort of giddy, only I can’t exactly tell why.
He’s concerned about me. He’s sitting beside me on the bed, stroking my hair.
But why is he concerned, and why am I in bed?
I open my mouth to ask, and another voice—Storm, I think fuzzily—says from behind me, “I’m trying to reach the doctor, but he’s not answering the phone. I’ll tell Rook to find—”
“Dude, can you give us some space?” Hawk’s voice rumbles, and his hand trails down my neck.
Doctor?
“Sure thing, man. Just holler if you need me.”
Steps move away from the bed, and the door clicks shut.
“What happened?” I whisper. I don’t want to move, don’t want him to stop stroking my hair. I feel… safe. Cherished. I don’t want this illusion to be broken. Not yet.
“Don’t you remember?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then pushes another lock off my forehead. “You passed out.”
Passed out.
No. this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I jog. I do Pilates. I eat healthy. I’ve never felt faint in my life.
Except lately, but… No. This only happens to heroines in historical romances. Swooning, I believe is the word.
I don’t swoon.
“You’ve been sick,” Hawk says and lies down beside me, our faces inches apart. He smells fresh and musky, and my stomach does a weird flip flop, my body caught between tension and desire. “Throwing up, and now passing out. Any idea why, babe?”
I shake my head. “A bug?” I offer.
His eyes are clear like glass, the palest gray, but they are warm. Worried. “Could be. Or it could be stress. Stress can do strange things to your body, and God knows we’ve been through some rough times this week.”
I nod. He’s right.
“You never gave me an answer,” he whispers, his hand moving to my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“Answer?” I can’t remember any question.
“Yeah. I asked… Didn’t I? I asked if you’d be my girl.” His voice is gruff, and oh my, is that a flush on his cheekbones?
He really asked that? I didn’t dream it?
“The thing is,” he goes on when I don’t immediately say anything, “you are my girl. I’ve never thought of any girl that way before. It’s a fucking first. The real question is… do you want me, too?”
“To be my boy?” I ask, breathless.
His mouth tips up into a smile. “Your boyfriend,” he clarifies.
Right.
The giddiness is back. Does that mean…. Does that mean he loves me? I’m dying to ask, but I’m scared shitless, too. I may not be the swooning kind, under normal circumstances, but I’ve also never taken part in this strange courting dance. Never fell in love with someone.
Never had to ask someone if they love me back.
“Yes,” I finally push out and lick my suddenly dry lips. “Sure.”
