Too Much : Hayes Brothers Book 1

THALIA WRAPS HER CARDIGAN TIGHTER for the nth time, tiptoeing toward the bathroom and cringing when her toes touch the cool floor. My eyes follow her out, a frown on my face.

I’m sitting here in a t-shirt, boiling hot, but she’s wrapped in a chunky, woolen cardigan, shuddering and chilly. She’s a bit pale too, but I attributed that to tiredness.

Now I’m not so sure.

We’ve watched two episodes, about to start the third. I use the short break to clear the table and fetch two beers before Thalia comes back, skin ashen, eyes glassy.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just tired. I should probably get some sleep, but I need to know what happened, so one more episode. Pass me the blanket, please.”

I touch the back of my hand to her forehead, not buying that answer. I lean closer to use my lips on her temple as a makeshift thermometer, checking again because my hands are cold, and I’m not sure if she’s as hot as I think.

Mom always said lips are most accurate.

“Shit,” I breathe, moving away. “You’ve got a fever. A pretty high one.”

Instead of the flimsy blanket hanging over the back of the sofa, I fetch a big, fluffy one from my bedroom and wrap Thalia in a gray cocoon.

“I don’t think it’s that high. I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine.” The cabinets bang in the kitchen while I search for pills. “You’re burning up, so you can’t tell.”

With Tylenol and a thermometer, I sit beside her, curling my fingers under her chin so I can aim the blue light at her head. “One-oh-two point eight. That’s you done for the night, omorfiá. Tylenol and bed.”

“I’m just chilly. I’ll be fine when the pills start working. Let’s watch another one.” She cuffs my wrist, pulling her lips into an exaggerated horseshoe, and raises the stakes with Puss in Boots big eyes. “Pretty please.”

Hell no. She should rest; sleep this off before it worsens, but she’s on her feet, hands clasped over her ears to drown out my unvoiced protests. She swallows two pills, boiling a kettle to make herself a cup of tea.

My leg bounces on the floor. I fucking hate that she’s unwell. I’m about as comfortable as a wet chicken right now. She should be in bed, asleep, nice and toasty under the comforter.

I stop short of convincing her to head to bed, recalling what happened last week when I came home after work and found her curled on the couch with a hot water bottle on her abdomen and a half-eaten bar of chocolate on the coffee table. She took Advil to ease period cramps. Not even twenty minutes later, she was flat out.

Maybe Tylenol has the same effect.

She comes back with tea and settles into the corner of the couch while I press play.

“Come here.” I reach behind her back, pulling her to my side. “You’re hotter than a radiator.”

“And yet, I’m cold.” She rests her head on my shoulder, eyes on the screen.

I hold her closer, my hand under the blanket and cardigan, around her middle. I caress her waistline, brushing my fingers up and down for half an hour before her head starts swaying and her body relaxes.

She’s out, but I continue stroking the curve of her waist until I’m sure she won’t wake up if I move her. With a bit of maneuvering, she ends up in my arms and then in bed.

She stirs, cuddling her cheek to the pillow. Even pale, almost fucking see-through, she’s beautiful. I’m not as rigid now that Tylenol has brought her fever down.

One-oh-two point eight is no joke.

I tuck her in, staring at the sleeping beauty like a A-grade creep, consumed by a strong undertow of affection. I leave the night lamp on and go back to the living room to tidy up and fetch Thalia’s pills and a glass of water.

Twenty minutes later, she’s still in the same position, the hair on her forehead damp. She’s overheating in the woolen cardigan. Careful not to wake her, I pull the covers back, take it off, unzip her jeans, and slide them down her thighs. Instead of staring at the white lace of her panties, I stretch her top lower to cover her up, then push the sheets back to her chin.

A part of me wants to crawl in beside her, but I force myself to switch off the night lamp and retreat to my bedroom. I lose my clothes, and toss them in the hamper before getting in bed, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. I toss and turn for twenty minutes, searching for a comfortable position, tense like a drawn slingshot.

What if she spikes a fever in the middle of the night and doesn’t wake up to take the pills? What if she needs more water but is too weak to get out of bed? Or worse… what if she gets out of bed and collapses halfway to the kitchen?

I won’t hear that if I’m in here.

I fling my legs over the edge of the bed, cross the hall, and walk back into her room. The mattress dips under my weight as I sneak in beside Thalia, replacing the pillow she’s cuddling with my body. She stirs again, still asleep when her fingers spread on my chest and her face buries in the crook of my neck.

Nothing has ever felt this fucking good.

She stays in the same position throughout the night. On the other hand, I wake up too often, pressing my lips to her temple every time to check her temperature. Around four in the morning, she’s way too hot again.

“Thalia,” I whisper, grazing my knuckles across her cheek. “Thalia, wake up.” I brush the damp hair away from her face and flick the nightlamp.

She shudders, swallows hard as if her throat hurts, and opens her eyes slowly, squinting against the brightness of the room. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

“Obviously, I’m taking advantage of the situation.” I help her to a seating position. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m looking after you. You’re burning up again.”

She rubs the sleep away, touching her forehead, brown eyes searching my face, frowning still as if her processing speed didn’t wake up with her. “What time is it?”

“Just past four in the morning.” I watch her wash two Tylenol pills down with water and set the glass aside. “Where the hell did you catch a cold in summer?”

She inches closer, draping one hand over my stomach as I pull her to me, already addicted to feeling her this close. “I don’t know, maybe the storm this morning. Some golfers don’t mind playing in the rain,” she whispers, nuzzling her nose into my neck. “You smell so nice,” she breathes, half asleep already.

“You always say that.”

“Because you do… so nice.”

I stamp a kiss on her head. “Sleep, omorfiá.”