Emma pulled
up behind Matthew’s car and frowned, noticing that his taillight was busted.
She got out and pulled the bag of items from the back seat, not giving his car
much more thought.
Knocking
gently on the door, she figured she would leave the bag on the front step if he
didn’t answer. He might be sleeping. But what if he’d gotten light-headed,
fallen, and hit his head on the bathtub and was knocked-out cold, lying in a
pool of his own blood? The thought, while mildly ridiculous, gave her just
enough pause to knock again, this time more loudly.
No answer.
She rang the
bell.
No
answer.
Now
she was concerned. His car was in the drive. He was definitely home. Her heart
began to beat in her
ears.
She tried the
door.
Locked.
She looked through the leaded glass front door. No movement. Nice house.
She knocked again.
Emma still had
the bag in her arm. So, she carried it with her around the back of the house to
the screened in porch. The screen door was open, so she stepped up onto the
pretty porch with the comfy furniture. It appeared that Matthew spent time out here.
There were pillows, a rug, a throw, a couple books, and a lamp. Nice.
She knocked
on the back door. No answer. She didn’t see anyone inside.
She bit her lip
and tried the door. It opened. “Hello? Matthew?”
No answer. She moved inside and let her gaze
wander around the room. It was cozy and well decorated for a guy’s place. She
noticed the kitchen to the right and headed in that direction. She put her bag
on the kitchen counter then headed toward what she knew must be the master
bedroom. This house was similar in style to hers.
She called
out to him again. Emma was getting worried now. Why didn’t he answer?
As she
entered the bedroom, she noticed it the blinds were closed and it was rather
dark, but she could see no one was in the bed. Then, she realized the shower
was running. Against any kind of decent judgment, she moved toward the bathroom
door. She couldn’t help herself; she peeked inside. He wasn’t standing in the
shower; he was sitting on the floor. She panicked and rushed towards him before
her brain informed her to actually speak his name.
She pulled
open the door, certain he was dead before she shrieked, “Matthew, open your
damned eyes!” He did. Open his damned eyes. Opened them really wide. “Emma? Why
are you in my shower stall?”
She really
didn’t have a great answer to that. “Oh, Lord. I thought you were dead.” It was
the best she could do.
He did look
nearly dead. He smiled weakly. “I’ve been really sick, so I thought I’d sit
here for little while. But I’m not dead. So, um, could you hand me a towel?
Unless, of course, you prefer a shower?”
Emma then
became acutely aware of her position. And his. He was naked. Oh, Lord, was he
naked. The most delicious naked
she’d ever seen. And now she couldn’t stop staring at his naked. And apparently
his naked knew it now. Because it was
staring straight up at her, too.
“Emma—a
towel? Because I’m a little more inclined to invite you into my shower now.”
She raised
her eyes beyond his naked to his eyes, horrified. “Uh, a towel. Sure.” Looking
around, she grabbed the closest towel she could find, the one hanging on a hook
beside the shower. “I thought you were dead,” she said again, as an
explanation.
She was a
complete idiot. And now she wanted to jump his sick bones.
Just as
quickly as she heard him turn the water off, he all but shoved her out of his
way to get to the toilet and throw up. That was enough motivation for Emma to
snap out of it and get the hell out of sick, naked Matthew’s bathroom.
While he was
getting his clothes on, she did the same things she’d done for Cammie. After
everything had been sanitized, she brought in a tray with saltines and ginger
ale. She found him lying weakly in his bed wishing for death to take him.
“I’m sorry I
invaded your privacy. Cammie asked me to come check on you. She’s sick and
wondered if you’d come down with the virus, too. When you didn’t answer, I
thought maybe you’d had an accident.”
He opened
one eye. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
She grinned.
“Probably. But I’m known for my dramatic flair on occasion. I’m artistic, in
case you haven’t heard.” She straightened his bed like she’d done for her
sister.
“Are you
mothering me?” he asked.
“My mother
always said you feel better when your bed isn’t a mess.”
“She’s
right. Thanks. Sorry you had to—see that.”
“That’s
okay. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” She swished her hand as if waving
his words away.
“Not that. I
meant, the throwing up part. I don’t think anyone has seen me bare-assed,
hanging over a toilet before. It’s not very manly.”
“I have an
aversion to vomit, so I excused myself from the room as soon as I knew what was
happening.
Don’t worry,
still manly.” She envisioned the other manly part and kept her opinion of that
to herself. Holy moly, every bit of him was manly. It was all burned into her
brain permanently.
“I’ve
brought saltines, Gatorade, chicken broth, and ginger ale. Call me if you need
anything. If it’s a twenty-four hour bug, you should be fine in the morning.”
“Emma,
thanks again. I appreciate your looking out for me.”
“We really
need to find you some friends in town.” She smiled and left the room.
Her legs were
shaky. She could never look at him the same way again—not without mentally
undressing him, knowing what lay beneath. She drew another unsteady breath.
