The Carrero Solution (Carrero Book 3)

* * *

Less than half an hour later, we’re heading out of the city onto calmer scenery. Jake suggested driving to Long Island, over an hour away, and maybe stopping somewhere to

walk and take in the beautiful surroundings. He’s packed a couple of warm jackets and a hat for me and looked up some quiet spots for lunch when we get there. He’s being romantic and thoughtful, Jake, trying to show me how much I mean to him.

The car is stiflingly hot. Even though the weather is mild, his air con is blowing gently, and a slow heat creeps up my spine. I wonder if maybe the way I’ve been feeling is a sign I’m getting sick.

Yes, that’s really what I need right now on top of everything else.

I’m exhausted. Even though I slept a lot last night, this fatigue can’t be from the emotional insomnia I’ve suffered for the past week. Right now, here with Jake, listening to quiet country music as we pass through the city, I feel anything but emotional, yet my body is completely out of whack. I’m tired and sensitive. Nausea from my hangover lingering, despite sleeping for almost an entire day and night, I crack the window a little for air.

“You okay, Bambina?” Jake’s voice cuts through my inner dialog, and I glance at him quietly. “You look a little pale suddenly.” He lifts his fingers to my cheek and frowns. “You feel warm too.” He looks around, veering the car into a side street, and pulls over before he leans further to feel my face properly. The touch of his hands on my skin sends out another brain-filled bout of arguing voices with which I’ve zero energy to contend.

Fine, he can touch me … End of!

“I think I’m getting sick. I’ve been feeling off-color lately.” I admit, resting my forehead against his

palm instinctively. The inner voices seem to have

shut up now that I’ve given consent for him to touch me.

“I don’t think a trip to Long Island is the answer, Emma. I’m taking you home, and you’re going to bed.” He has the serious, don’t argue, commanding tone in his voice that, for once, I’ve no desire to go up against. Since getting into the car, my bile has risen slowly, and I have an overwhelming urge to gag.

“I’m not that sick, Jake. It’s just remnants of my hangover and this past week.” I try for a smile, but without warning, nausea rises out of me, and I jack the car door open just in time to get my head out before I throw up.

“Jesus. Emma!” Jake lets go of me and, within seconds, appears at the outside of the car, pulling me away from the contents of my stomach to a nearby step and sitting me down. I rest my head between my knees before turning away in panic as I throw up again into nearby bushes, retching in pain as I lose the only things I’ve eaten over the past two days. This time Jake holds back my hair and balances my shoulder, keeping me steady.

“Can you sit up?” He pulls me back against him and doesn’t let go until I nod. “I have water in the car.” He jumps up, dashing to the car’s open doors and back again in a flash. He takes up his position behind me, bringing the bottle to my hands, and I lean against him, sipping the burning taste of vomit away from my mouth. My head is swimming as nausea subsides, and I suddenly feel weak and tired.

“I’ve never seen you ill … You’re worrying me, Miele. I think we need to get you home and looked at.” He sounds concerned, with a hint of panic in his voice. He holds me to him with his palm on my forehead, giving me more reasons to take a chance on him and get this, between us, to work. He’s taking care of me, just like he always does.

I love you so much.

“It’s just a bug or something I’ve eaten. I’ll be okay. I’m starting to feel a little better now.” I try for a convincing smile, tilting my face toward him, but his face only hardens some more. He doesn’t like what he sees; I know it’s futile to hide this from him. I feel fragile, and my voice is exposing my little white lie.

“You’re so white, and you’re trembling. We’re going home.” He scoops me onto his lap, closes his legs beneath me, and holds me close. “If it’s nothing, then it won’t do any harm having a doctor look at you, will it?” He rests my head against his neck, holding me in.

“If it makes you happier, but I can promise you, this is nothing.” I’m too tired to argue with him and too faint to care. I’m not even protesting when he lifts me and carries me to the car, sliding me in to avoid the puddle I left beside the door. He clips my belt over me and closes the door before getting into the other side and starting up.

“Home and bed,” he commands, reversing, resting a hand on my cheek again, testing my temperature to see if I’m hot. I lay my head into him for a moment before pulling away as the emotional confusion hits home again.

Maybe touching isn’t such a good idea.

“Yes, sir,” I say, closing my eyes and resting my head against the seat. If I block out the motion and try to relax, I’m sure I can keep the nausea at bay until we’re back at the apartment. It isn’t that far.

***

“We’re here, Miele.” Jake lifts me from the car when I blink my eyes open. I’m sure it’s only been seconds since I closed them. I’m in his arms, being lifted out of the car, and the garage around us looks exactly like underground parking at his apartment, and I’m completely thrown.

“We’re home already?” I blink a few times, snuggling closer into his strength, still trying to get a grip on reality, confusion all over my face, severely disorientated.

“You fell asleep pretty quickly, Bambina. You don’t look so white anymore, so I think it did you some good.” Jake brushes his mouth against my forehead with a soft smile.

What the hell is with the sleeping lately?

I close my eyes and let Jake carry me into the elevator and home. He’s right. I do feel better for having taken a nap. My nausea has subsided almost completely, and now I just feel hungry. I know I should be fighting him to let me walk, but my body and mind unanimously decide to let him do this.

I open my eyes when he lays me on the bed in his room. Nora has been in and cleaned up in that precise hotel-esque method of hers. The room is surprisingly comforting, and I take a breath feeling like I’ve returned home. I’m more than aware of the surge of happy joy it gives me and frown at myself.

“I don’t need to go to bed. I feel better, and I’m hungry.” I smile as he slides down beside me on the neat sheets. I sit myself up a little, wary he might start wrapping himself around me and cross my arms over my chest defensively.

“You’re staying here regardless. I’ll get you some food if you’re sure that’s what you want.” He frowns at me with a comical look on his face, his eyes take in my posture, and he moves away a little. Not that I blame him. Vomiting then asking for food isn’t exactly normal.

He lifts his fingers to my cheek, and I let them

linger there. “You still feel hot, but you’re not so pale anymore.” The way his touch feels is more than enough proof that I should make it clear that I’m not ready for it.

“I guess the car just made me feel worse.” I shrug with one shoulder, nestling onto the bed a little more comfortably. I watch how the sunshine comes into the room, lightening the color in his beautiful eyes to an almost transparent, gemstone green. One thing Jake will always be to me is gorgeous, despite how much he has hurt me.

“Maybe.” Jake gets up and leaves the room,

telling Nora to make me something light. Nora replies, saying something about homemade chicken soup, and I roll my eyes.

The two of them are acting like I have a terminal illness.

I swing my legs off the bed, standing quickly to tell him how ridiculous he’s being, and instantly crumble. My vision blacks out, and my body loses all control, Jell-O legs, and complete disorientation as I stand far too quickly.

“Shit.” I groan, feeling the cold wood floor connecting harshly with my limbs. I realize that I knocked my elbow sharply on the way down to my current crouching position.

“Emma? Emma … Fuck!” Jake’s panicked voice is followed by heavy boots running toward me, and I’m being dragged up from the floor into his strong embrace.

“Did you fall? Why were you up? Are you okay?” He’s lifting me onto the bed with him, so I’m sitting in his lap, wrapped in him, aware my whole body has started to tremble and heat flushes across my face in a devastatingly horrible way; the rise of nausea strong again as dizziness gives way to coldness.

“I think it was a fainting spell,” I mumble weakly. “I don’t think I fainted, but I don’t feel so good.” I slump against his chest, knowing what’s coming next, and I don’t have the energy or inclination to argue. I’m out of whack and ready to lie down and stay in bed just like he ordered.

“That’s it, this happened in the Hamptons, and now this, Emma … I’m calling my doctor. Get into bed and do not move … I swear if you so much as lift your head, there will be hell to pay.” He’s in snappy, bossy Carrero mode. He sweeps back the covers and lays me down in the open space, pulling my boots and sweater off before covering me up gingerly. He looks stressed and wired, and all I can do is smile weakly in return.

There he is … That’s my Carrero; a vision of domineering aggression in all his concerned beauty.

God, I’ve missed you.

“Yes, sir.” I throw a mocked salute at him, still shaken, but lying down in the cool sheets helps. The overwhelming trembling is subsiding, and the nausea is calming down. He picks up the TV remote and presses it, the TV coming down from the concealed space in the ceiling, choosing a romantic chick flick for me from the menu. His body is stiff as he scrolls, but I can’t help smiling at his choice.

“Here.” He hands me the remote with a warning glint in his eye. “Stay put. Nora is making your food. I’m going to call the doctor. I’ll be back soon, and I better not find you’ve moved out of this bed, even once,” he commands. His eyes are fiery, and his face is completely serious. It makes my inner nerves jump slightly in a tug of heartfelt emotion. He bends, kissing me lightly on the forehead, then walks off, lifting his phone to his ear, heading to his office.

I can tell he’s trying to act like he’s in control, but that flicker of worry and the fact he’s left the room to call his doctor makes my heart swell a little. Through all my crazy internal emotional mess, this part of him always wins me over.

Jake is really worried about me. It’s so sweet it’s almost funny, as is his movie choice for me.

Ten Things I Hate About You.

I guess he knows I’m emotionally all over the place with how I feel about him, and he’s using movies the way he uses iTunes, except this film is for me to him. He knows I’m struggling to get past his actions to make me hate him. I can’t help but sigh, feeling more than a little bit torn.

I don’t hate you, Jake. I’m hurt, and I hate her. I’m just confused.

I know I’m fine, physically, maybe in need of some bed rest and sleep. I’ve caught a little bug, but I’m positive there’s nothing for him to worry about … nothing physically anyway. My mind, on the other hand, is a completely different ballpark.