Kiwi Rules (New Zealand Ever After Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  “Ah,” I said. “Yes, you do.” I touched the swollen area gently. It was hot, like you’d imagine, and when I put the back of my hand against her cheek, it was warm to the touch, too. “Hurts, eh. Feeling crook as well?”

  “A little,” she said, which I was guessing meant, “a lot.” She went on, “This weakness thing’s pretty awkward. Me being weak like this, I mean, given that I didn’t do too great last night, either. We have to check out today, but maybe we could stop at a clinic on our way to the next place.”

  I thought about what to say. It wasn’t easy. “First,” I said, “you did brilliantly last night, other than the running-out bit. Best night I’ve had in a long time, at least the first part of it was. Also, I should probably remind you that you weren’t the one who cried.”

  She looked away, and I picked up her hand and held it tight. It was warm, too, and surely it was trembling a little. “I got a little freaked out,” she finally said, which was no news at all and told me exactly nothing. “Could we just . . . not talk about that right now?”

  “Yeh,” I said. “We could.” I wanted to hold her tighter, but if I did, I had a feeling she’d run, so I settled for keeping hold of her hand.

  “I packed my things already,” she said. “I’d have loaded them into the car, but I’d probably have created a disturbance in the Force with that kind of unplanned behavior. Plus I didn’t have the key. And by the way? Could you be a little more confident in your nudity, please? You’re sitting here holding my hand like we’re on a park bench.”

  I laughed. “Saucy to the end, eh. I reckon you’re not dying quite yet. But—yeh. Let’s get packed up and get you to a doctor before that gets any worse. I didn’t come all the way from Dunedin to hang about in a hospital waiting room.”

  She wanted to be casual? I could be casual. I might be feeling the last thing from casual, but that didn’t mean I had to fall in love.

  I could still take care of her, though, and I was going to do it.

  Karen

  A couple hours later, I’d had breakfast, which I’d mostly pushed around, given that I was shivering with fever and trying to hide it, and had drunk two coffees that hadn’t helped as much as I’d hoped. After that, once the clinic had opened, a doctor had cleaned the wounds and rebandaged my arm, which had hurt. A lot. I’d listened to her talking about sepsis and warning signs and hospitals in more or less of a haze, and then had listened to her repeating it to Jax, because she’d noticed the haze and called him in.

  Now, I was back in the car, and Jax was opening the door. He’d installed me here to wait for him while he got my medicines from the pharmacy next door, not listening one bit to my assurance that I was fine. I’d have been mad about that, but to tell the truth, sitting down felt better.

  Debbie got all excited from the back seat at Jax’s arrival, giving a raspy quack of welcome like a duck who was growing older by the day and getting his big-boy voice, and Jax handed me a box of antibiotic tablets, another one of Panadol, and a new water bottle, and said, “Take two now, then one with every meal. Do a couple Panadol now for the fever as well. Get all that down you.”

  “Geez, you’re bossy,” I managed to tell him when he’d climbed in on his side, and then had reached across and opened the packets for me like I was helpless, just because I was fumbling a little.

  “Yeh, I am. Get used to it.” He sat with his hands on the steering wheel and frowned ahead of him at nothing, and I leaned back against the door, thought how beautiful he was, and considered going to sleep.

  “The question is,” he said, “where to take you.”

  “We’re going to the next place,” I said. “Camping near Rotorua.” I’d looked forward to it. Rotorua was second only to Queenstown as an adrenaline-sports hub. Too bad that my adrenaline had vanished overnight, along with my dopamine and so forth.

  “We’re not camping,” he said.

  I sighed. “Glamping. I get the difference. Real beds, and no digging holes required. Also, you’re being awfully authoritative for somebody who’s had sex—oral sex—with me exactly one time.”

  He smiled. Still hot, unfortunately. Then he leaned across the car, kissed my mouth gently and so sweetly, looked into my eyes, and told me, “Like I said. Get used to it. We’re not camping or glamping. Tell me whether you’d rather go home to your place, where I’m planning to stay with you, so you know, or go home to my place, where I can look after you better. More shops, eh. Closer hospital, too.”

  “I’ll be better tomorrow,” I said. “I want to go do what we came to do. Go . . . wherever that was. I can’t remember. I’m a little fuzzy today, that’s all. And tell me you haven’t marched, or crawled under barbed wire in the mud, or fought bad guys or whatever heroic thing, when you had a little fever.”

  He was frowning again. The man looked so good frowning. He also had his hand on my face again, and I wanted to lean my cheek into it. “The doctor said, ‘Watch for sepsis.’ I heard her. We’re not out in the bush with no electric. We’re watching for sepsis, or rather, I’m watching you for sepsis.”

  I sighed. “And here I was hoping for sexy possessiveness. Dominance. Possibly a little bondage. Exerting your power by watching me for sepsis and making me drink orange juice isn’t what I had in mind. This is my vacation.”

  Whoops. Yes, I’d said it. Oh, well. Blame the fever. I really did not feel great. At least I hadn’t told him I was in love with him.

  His mouth opened, then closed, and he started the car and said, “Right. Option C.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I take you to my place, where I can put you to bed and look after you and where the hospital’s twenty minutes away, and if you do feel better tomorrow, we can go have an adventure. A very mild adventure. And indulge in some sexy possessiveness once I’m sure you’re better. Dominance. Possibly a little bondage.” He was about to pull out into the road when he stopped, turned to me, and said, “Wait. It’s me doing this dominance-and-bondage bit, right?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “Obviously. Who was getting her legs held down last night? I wasn’t the one doing that.”

  He’d looked fairly worried before, or as worried as a calm, competent guy could get. Now, he smiled, looking satisfied and not quite so sweet. “Good to know. I reckon I’d better take you home and get you well, then. If you need me to stop for a coffee or a snack, let me know. You didn’t eat your breakfast.”

  “You have major control issues,” I told him.

  “Too late,” he said, pulling out into traffic. “You already told me that’s your weakness. Protest all you want, but we’re doing this my way.”

  It only took an hour and a half to get to Katikati. I knew that, even though it seemed like six hours. One of those uncomfortable rides that got worse as you went along, despite Jax’s butter-soft leather seats with their superior Lexus ergonomics. The kind of trip where you keep thinking, This can be over any time now, OK? Jax would look over at me occasionally and ask, “All right?” And I’d say, “Fine,” because what was the alternative? This was a tiny bit of sickness. It wasn’t any big deal, and never mind that all I wanted was to lie down. And possibly throw up.

  When we pulled into Koro’s drive, I said, “What if he doesn’t want Debbie? I should’ve asked. I need to . . .” My teeth were chattering, and I was getting lightheaded from the sun, both of which were really annoying.

  Jax leaned over, kissed my cheek, then put the back of his hand on it, frowned, and said, “No worries. I’ve got it.” Which sounded good. Face it, it sounded perfect. Those were five pretty good words. It was lucky I wasn’t a big believer.

  Koro must have been sitting outside again, maybe ever since my text from Thames, because I’d barely closed my eyes again before I heard his voice saying, “Karen? What’s happened?”

  I was going to get out, but as soon as I started, the motion, and the nausea from the winding rural roads, kicked in all the way. I had the door half open and my seatbelt still half on, and
I was leaning over and throwing up my coffee into Koro’s driveway. See: How to Present as an Attractive Life Partner, Day 1. Fortunately, I hadn’t eaten my breakfast, I wasn’t auditioning as a life partner, and Jax was on the other side of the car.

  Except that he wasn’t. He was crouching down beside me halfway through the wreckage of my image, holding my head, and asking, “Karen? All right?”

  I nodded, which was the wrong move, because it meant I was heaving again. Nothing to come up anymore, which at least meant I wasn’t doing it on his shoes. “Fine,” I managed to say, and he laughed. Gently, but still.

  “Hey,” I said, sitting up again and wiping the back of my mouth like the classy, mysterious seductress I most definitely was not, “that’s what you’d say.”

  “Probably. Want me to take you into the house for a rest before we go any farther?” He was still right there, and beyond him, I could see Koro’s legs in his baggy tan pants. Great.

  “No.” I just wanted to go home. And not have anybody fuss over me. I wanted that a whole lot. “What about Debbie?”

  “I’m telling him about Debbie.” He turned away at last, and I sat back and closed my eyes and heard him tell Koro, “I could bring your chair over if you like, sir, or we could talk over there.”

  My heart squeezed. Physically, I swear. I’d just been thinking that Koro should sit down. I wished Jax would stop being so perfect. I wished I’d stop being so weak. I was about to cry, and I didn’t cry. Even when I’d been on that sloping bathroom floor, I hadn’t cried.

  They moved off, and after a minute, Jax came back and said, “I’m going to leave Debbie here with a bit of fencing, then do something more permanent for him once I’ve got you put to bed. And before you object to that—your grandfather told me to do it, too. You need a bed. And blankets.”

  “Who knew he was such a . . . traitor? I feel much better. Carsick, that’s all. I’ll go home instead, I’ve decided.” I was still shivery and felt really, really crappy, but that would pass as soon as the antibiotics kicked in. “I will go in and rest a . . . few minutes, and then I’ll be all good to drive myself. If you don’t mind putting my . . . stuff in my car for me.”

  “No,” he said. Absolutely calmly.

  “I just threw up on you,” I said, wishing he wasn’t so tall, and that the sun wasn’t right behind him. “You don’t want that to . . . happen again. I’m fine. No big deal. I lie down, the antibiotics work, and I’m all good in the morning.”

  I didn’t want to tell him the real thing. That I hated being sick more than anything in the world. More than being injured, by far. I knew that, because I’d broken a leg snowboarding once, and there was no contest. I didn’t mind pain. I could handle pain. I hated throwing up and staggering around and feeling weak, though, especially in front of other people. Especially in front of a man. He didn’t want to hear my life story, though, which was wonderful, because I didn’t want to tell him. That wasn’t what we were doing here.

  He crouched down like he’d heard my wish/thought about standing up and the sun, took my hand, and said again, “No. Because you just threw up on me. What kind of new boyfriend would I be if I ran off on you now?”

  “First,” I said, closing my eyes, because it was easier, “a normal one. Second—is that what you are?”

  His other hand was stroking over my hair. Not too much. Gently, the way Hope had always done. “Oh, yeh,” he said. “And your boyfriend standards are seriously lacking for somebody who was engaged. Just saying.”

  “If you think men take care of . . . women that way,” I told him, “you’re living in . . . Dream World.” Other than Hemi, but Hemi and Hope had a Great Love, because she was tiny and blonde and feminine and had big blue eyes and so forth, so forget that.

  Was I grumpy? Yes, I was. As soon as he started driving down the hill and around the curves again, I was going to get nauseated again, too. I was already starting. He was also too close to my face, and I’d just thrown up. I concentrated on breathing shallowly and wished he’d stand up again, sun and all. “Save yourself,” I told him. “Get out now.”

  “Makes me wonder,” he said in a thoughtful sort of way, still holding my hand and not moving out of the danger zone, “what kind of wanker you chose. Could make me wonder what kind of wanker I am, too, but then—you didn’t choose me so much as I chose you. I didn’t give your bad taste a chance to operate, maybe. Snapped you up fast, didn’t I.”

  “You did not . . . choose me.”

  “Can’t hear you,” he said, opening the back door. “Too noisy, with the duck and all. I’m leaving the fencing here, on second thought. Your cousin can get it sorted. He looked like a capable fella. Drink the rest of your water. All of it. I’ll get you a plastic bag for the drive.”

  Jax

  I’d joked because she’d needed me to, but bloody hell, she was burning up, and her chills were so bad, her teeth were chattering. She’d expected me to leave her like that? That bloke must have been a prince. But then, I already knew that from the night before. You could tell a lot about a woman by how surprised she was when you took care of her in bed.

  She didn’t say anything for the next twenty-five minutes, including about my speed, which was another sign of her state of mind, because Karen had been born to say, “You’re going to get a ticket if you keep going that fast.” A woman with no filter, except right now, because she’d shut right down on the sharing. No filter until she got ill, then, which was interesting. She did retch into her bag a couple times, though, and when I made a right turn instead of a left in Tauranga, she revived enough to say, “Wrong way.”

  Giving me directions. Surprise. Brain still operating, then.

  “Yeh, thanks,” I said, making another right, “but I know where I’m going.”

  I pulled up to the Emergency Department of the hospital, and she sat up and said, “No.”

  I didn’t listen to that, either. I’d gone into binary mode, yes/no, next-thing. I jumped out of the car, came around fast, hauled her out of her side, and asked, “Can you walk?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, wrenching out of my grasp. “Take me home.” Her face twisted, and I thought she was going to cry, but instead, she said, her voice shaking and furious, “I don’t need this. I need to go home. I’m fine.” She groped for the car door, but the Lexus had done its thing, and the handles were recessed again. She did start to cry now. Angry tears, and I didn’t care. Within two seconds, I’d picked her up and was heading for the entrance. “Jax,” she said, doing her best to get free, like that was happening, “put me down. Your leg. You can’t carry me. I’m saying a . . . safe word. Put me down.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “But not applicable. And I clearly can carry you. You’re under my load limit, apparently.” The doors opened with a whoosh, the air con settled over my skin like a chilled blanket, and Karen started shivering harder.

  “Sepsis, I think,” I told the woman behind the desk. “She’s just started antibiotics, seen up at Thames this morning for a skin infection, and the doc up there warned us about this. Took the first tablets about two hours ago, but her fever’s spiked pretty high, so has her pulse, she’s got chills, she’s vomiting, and she’s irrational.” I lowered Karen to the floor but kept my arm around her, lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt gently up, and showed the woman her arm. The swollen red flesh had extended past the bandage, and the pink line had broadened and snaked farther up. I couldn’t see how far, but I was willing to bet it was all the way to the lymph node.

  “I am not irrational,” Karen said. After which she tried to bolt for the door. Fortunately, she wasn’t moving very fast.

  I grabbed her, wrapped both arms around her from behind, one around her chest and the other around her waist, and told the nurse, “She’s irrational. Get her in there.”

  Karen

  So that was boring.

  The ER, blah, blah, lots of people, IV, blood draw, throw up some more, then do it again, while Jax sat and watched and I wished
he wasn’t seeing this. By the time they were moving me into another bed, which felt really bad, and rolling down the corridor with me, I was even fuzzier. All I wanted was to be in a nice, big, comfortable bed with lots of fluffy pillows, and hospital beds aren’t anything close. I was supposed to be at Jax’s, looking out at the protective green slope of Mauao, maybe lying out on a chaise under a blanket in the warm sea breeze with the hiss and roar of the surf settling into my bones, not rolling down a freezing white hospital corridor getting seasick.

  I watched Jax, because I needed to look at something good. He was coming along behind us, and when he caught my eye, he gave me a half-smile, like, “Yeah. Sucks. Soon be over.” I could almost hear him saying it. That was nice. I’d just close my eyes, even though people were swinging me around and taking me through another door now, which was making me sick again. I had a line into the back of my hand and a tube for oxygen in my nose, the pillowcase was way too scratchy, the pillow was thin and made of foam, and I didn’t belong here. My arm hurt, that was all. I had an infection, and I had pills. I’d just . . . tell them so. In a . . . minute.

  When I woke up, the room was dim, but the acoustic tiles overhead and the blinking IV tower beside me spelled “hospital” all the way. Worse than the broken leg. I hadn’t had to stay overnight with the leg.

  I didn’t want to be here. Not at night. It was like I was going backwards, like everywhere I’d thought I’d got in the past fifteen years had been an illusion. I hadn’t stayed overnight since . . .

  I forced the panic down and turned my head, and Jax was there, sitting in an easy chair, his shoes off and his ankles crossed on my bed, reading a book. I had a roommate, it seemed. Sort of. I was the only one in here. No other bed. Why?

  “Hey,” he said, setting the book in his lap. “How ya goin’?”