Refusing the offer because I got the feeling Devlin wouldn’t like Gian seeing him as a human being, I shut the driver out with a thanks before I made up the tea for Devlin and let it steep.
Returning to the bedroom, I saw he was slumped over in the same position we’d dumped him in. Moving him around so that he’d be less uncomfortable, I sighed when he flopped wherever I put him.
Devlin was an awkward man. Not just in the way he acted on dates, either. He was purposely difficult. So for him to be the opposite of that was unnerving. And he was so damn still, too.
I bit my lip as I started to undress him, somehow managing to get him out of his jacket, tie, and shirt without too much trouble even if, by the end of it, I was sweating buckets.
With the tea having steeped, I helped lift his head so that I could pour some into him. He sighed after a few mouthfuls, which made me think the heat had eased his throat, then seemed to relax as the tea went to work.
Taking the opportunity to strip his pants off him, I started unbuckling his belt, but as I did, he reared up, eyes bleary, and puked all over me.
When he fell back onto the bed, I stared down at myself, at the puke, trying not to gag before I clomped over to the bathroom to strip off too.
I had no idea why I wasn’t vomiting. I’d always been terrible with stuff like this, so to be covered in it made me hold my breath as I dragged my ruined suit off and dumped it on the shower floor. Drenching it, I shuddered in revulsion before I dove under the spray and washed up.
When I was done, I wrapped a towel around my waist, and returned to Devlin’s side.
He’d been sick again.
On the bed.
Jesus.
It was going to be a long night.
Nineteen
Micah
Head banging with a migraine, I helped drag Devlin’s ass back into bed. I had a feeling that whatever he’d caught, I was going to be dealing with too.
The prospect of puking my guts out all night wasn’t a fun one, but mostly, it concerned me that I wouldn’t be alert for Devlin. It was quite clear to me that this bug had knocked him on his ass. He was close to catatonic. Only getting up to puke, before passing out into a deep sleep again.
As I finished mopping up the latest round of vomit from the bathroom floor—a feat I swore I’d never repeat in the future—the doorbell sounded.
While I felt sure nothing could disturb Devlin right now, not even a bomb, I rested the mop against the wall, and hurried out into the hall.
After having spent a lot of time here this past week, I was quite comfortable. Probably too comfortable for my own good. Protecting my heart wasn’t going so well when I’d made his house my home since this madness began.
I pulled open the door to reveal a scowling woman whose mass of dark brown curls drew a memory into being—that morning, at the elevator, when I’d seen Devlin, she’d been the only member of staff hovering around him who hadn’t been trying to get his attention.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
That she knew me was quite clear. Even if how she knew me wasn’t.
Had he told her about me?
Oh... the food.
He’d asked her to order it?
“Are you just going to gape at me? What the hell’s going on? Why isn’t Devlin answering his calls?” She made to storm forward, but I dove in front of her and waved my hands in front of me, raising them in a ‘back off’ sign.
“He’s sick. I’m pretty sure I’ve caught it too—” She immediately backed off. “That’s probably for the best.”
“Puking? Fever? Headaches?” was her brisk reply from across the foyer—outside Devlin’s front door, there was an atrium worthy of a concert hall.
“All of the above.”
Her nose crinkled. “Half the staff is down with it.” She reached up and rubbed her forehead. “I think I’m getting it myself.” Squinting at me, she demanded, “What’s your name again? I know you’re the Marketing intern. The pretty boy that has half the women on staff giggling about you around the water cooler.”
“Me?” I sputtered. The words were a compliment of sorts, but I was in New York—the land of models. And I’d been raised in California—the land of beautiful people. I wasn’t that special.
“Yeah, you.” She clicked her fingers. “Micah. I’m Lizzie.” Her hand darted out like she was offering to shake mine, before she winced and pulled it back. “Never mind. I’m Devlin’s EA.”
“I know.” I shot her a wary smile. “I’d have called in to tell you but—”
“You’re trying to be discreet.” She arched a disbelieving brow at that, her shrewd eyes just as distrustful. Enough to make me bristle with annoyance, at any rate. “Well, half your department’s out with this bug, so the fact you’re still standing is a miracle.
“Do you need any help here? Devlin’s bound to be a terrible patient. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to take a day off sick in all the time I’ve worked for him.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Jesus. “Well, it’s nothing I can’t manage. If things get worse, I’ll call for a doctor.”
“Call me. I can arrange everything.”
“What if you’re sick?”
She heaved an impatient sigh, but dug around in her purse. It was a massive tote bag, and she withdrew a notepad and a pen, which she proceeded to scrawl on.
With the tips of her fingers, she shoved the paper at me, and I snatched it back, trying to keep my distance as well.
Spying names and numbers, I said, “Okay, if you don’t answer, I’ll go through the list.”
She nodded. “Good.” Her gaze drifted down the hall behind me, in the exact direction of his bedroom, which told me this wasn’t her first visit to his home. Fitting, I supposed, considering she was his assistant. “Whatever he needs, just let me know.”
“Of course.”
Lizzie hummed under her breath. “See you on the other side, Micah.”
Somehow, I had the feeling she meant more than just the stomach flu that had decimated the team, but I didn’t have a damn clue how to reply.
Her disapproval was clear, but she didn’t force me out of Devlin’s apartment which she could well have done if she thought I didn’t have a right to be here.
Did she know about Devlin’s proclivities? Know that he owned VICE?
The questions tumbled through my mind, too many to process, especially with the banging pain in my head. Still, as I returned to the bathroom after locking the door, and begun mopping up the mess Devlin had made, only one question mattered and it was regarding no topic Lizzie had raised.
It only existed in the first place because she’d come to the door and I hadn’t run screaming out of there, leaving Devlin to Lizzie to take care of...
So, the QOTD was:
What was it that Devlin meant to me that made me forget about puke and cleaning and my own welfare?
That was something, I had to reason, only time would tell.
Twenty
Devlin
Nose crinkling at a weird smell that filled my nostrils, I turned my head to the side to try to evade it.
It reminded me of perfume. But it also wasn’t.
It made me wonder if a girlfriend had spent the night, deciding to pollute my air with eau de toilette, but this scent was recognizable.
It was like my aftershave, only stronger.
I frowned as I managed to tear my eyes open, staring around to figure out what the hell was going on. Lovers never stayed over, not without it being on pain of death, so even though I felt groggy and like shit, it was worth me trying to suss out the situation.
When I didn’t see a woman lying opposite me, but a man, I instantly realized what was happening.
Micah.
God, I knew I was right to want him here with me.
Because he’d used my products, the scent was twice as strong in my bed, and it was all t
he more delicious for it too. It smelled like me, but better. Waking up with him there made something inside me settle.
Which, admittedly, was an odd state for me.
I wouldn’t consider myself an altogether happy person. I was a ‘get up and get on with it’ kind of guy. I didn’t dwell on things that I couldn’t change, mostly because if I wanted to change something, I made adjustments. Things like depression, anxiety, anguish, even grief weren’t ailments the Astleys were allowed to endure. It was like they weren’t a part of our vocabulary, which I knew sounded as ridiculous as it was.
Just pretending everything was okay didn’t make it so.
With his face creased from the pillow, the navy fabric offset his golden skin to perfection, framing him and that messy hair in a way my hands never could. His lips were pouty in sleep, enough to make me want to lean forward to kiss them, but spreading the love meant spreading germs around in a vicious circle so I guessed that meant he was hands off.
For the time being.
Talk about the ultimate irony—my first bed partner and I couldn’t fuck him.
His eyelashes fluttered, revealing those delicious moss green irises. It was like the sun shining on a dew-laden field. Sparkling yet somnolent.
As he looked at me, he murmured, “You look pensive.”
“I do?” I pondered that. “Perhaps I am. I didn’t expect to like waking up with you here.”
His head rocked a little before he winced, then he rumbled, “I never know if you’re trying to charm me or offend me.”
My lips twitched. “Well, I don’t want to offend you. I’m quite good at that.”
“Why doesn’t that come as a shock? You Brits and your cutting technique.”
“Yes,” I told him semi-cheerfully. “We can make deeper cuts than a running electric saw and with just a few words. My mother is the absolute worst. Anyone she hates knows about it very quickly.”
“You find her amusing?”
The question surprised me. “I suppose. She’s very different.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“Just in an English way.”
“Explain.”
His voice had grown gruffer over the course of the conversation, so I asked carefully, “Are you sure?” His brow creased. “Do you have a headache?”
“I do, but I like to hear your voice.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, then looked as if he regretted it when he reached up and rubbed his temple. “You have a sexy voice.”
“Do you want some meds?” I queried, trying not to preen at his compliment. To be fair, with us both looking like shit warmed over, cuddled up in bed with the scent of my soap and the lingering sourness of the sick room, there was nothing to preen over. Period.
“Yeah, I think I do. There are some meds on your bedside table.”
“Pain meds?”
He nodded. “You’ve been puking like crazy, complaining of headaches and you had a wicked fever. I had it but not as badly. The puking stopped yesterday for us both, but I still feel like crap.”
Guilt hit me, because he’d been taking care of me while I’d been out of it, and he’d been sick too.
“Talk about a shitty host. Mother always said I was no use at parties.” As I rolled over, wincing when my stomach did the tango, and found a full glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol on the nightstand, he snickered a little.
“Wasn’t like you could help it. You were knocked out from the moment Gian and I brought you into the apartment.”
“Christ, I don’t remember that.” Retrieving a couple of pills from the bottle, I murmured, “I never understood why Americans called it acetaminophen.”
“Because that’s its name?” was his wry retort as he took the glass from me and accepted the pills.
“Not in the UK.” I monitored him as he took the medication, then accepted the glass and turned back onto my side. Watching him watch me was quite therapeutic.
“You were saying, about your mom?”
“You want me to talk still?”
He hummed. “I’m interested.”
“Why?”
For some reason, his eyes opened at that, and he frowned at me. “Devlin?”
“Yes?” I asked warily.
“I’ve seen you on talk shows, I’ve seen you on news reports, and I’ve heard you on podcasts. You’re one of the most confident men I’ve ever come across. Why are you so unsure of yourself around me? I’ve just cleaned up your puke, and trust me, that wasn’t something I ever imagined myself doing for me, never mind another living soul,” he commented gruffly. “I’ve cleaned you up, helped you drink soup, all while I feel like hell too. I think, if ever there was a time to stop with the nerves, it’s now. Don’t you?”
I blinked at him, then, stupidly, blustered, “I’m not nervous.”
“You are,” was his grumbled retort. “You’re awkward on dates, you’re only ever relaxed over text. In person, you’re like a different man with me. It’s a good thing you’re hot, is all I’m saying.”
“Hot as in sexy or hot as in feverish?” I found myself teasing, then laughing when he glowered at me.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Isn’t it?” I reached over and cupped his cheek. His skin was feverish, faintly clammy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with it, and somehow, he still took my breath away. “Astleys aren’t born to be romantic.”
“No, I figured that out after overhearing you with your dad.” His tone mocked mine, “You’re to spawn future Astleys and not have fun during the impregnating process, I assume?”
“Mistresses are for fun, wives are for heirs,” I mocked back.
He hissed out a breath. “That’s so many levels of messed up.”
“My whole family is messed up.” Cheerfully, I added, “I quite like them though.”
“You do?” His question was wary. “Why?”
“I don’t know. They’re not like parents. More like beings I’m tied to. When they don’t irritate me, I’m rather fond of them.”
“Fond? That’s kind of blah, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. That might be the only tie I have with them though. I like Mother’s spunk. For every time Father cheated on her, she made sure to cheat back.”
His eyes flared wide. “They’re openly adulterous?”
His horror had me rocking my head to the side. “Your parents are very religious, aren’t they?” It was a rhetorical question, because even if he wasn’t like them, I could see how his childhood had affected him.
Rotten though it might seem, that was good news for me…
“Yes. Very,” he confirmed.
“Both of them?”
He nodded. “Dad more than Mom, but she isn’t exactly stopping him from doing what he’s doing with me.”
I frowned. “What exactly is that?”
A sigh escaped him. “When I was in high school, I got a scholarship to Columbia. My grades were good, but I got in with a football scholarship. I turned it down because of my father’s wealth. Why should I take that position when someone who really needed it could use the financial help?
“But after that, with my MBA, I’m not eligible for any financial aid because of their means. He knows all that, but he still isn’t trying to help me. If anything, he’s using it to pressure me into caving.” His lips twisted. “But I know him too well.”
‘What did you do?” I asked. “Because you had to do something. There’s no way you could afford to be living with what the internship pays.”
He dipped his chin. “Three years into my degree, I knew I was gay. I also knew my father’s stance on homosexuality because he’d been bitching about it for years. Our preacher was very homophobic.”
“Is it weird that I’ve never known any homophobic Swedes?”
“There’s always one bad apple,” he said dryly. “And maybe he wasn’t, but after Google bought his company, he kind of went crazy for a while. Mom and Dad never said anything but
I think he started doing stuff he shouldn’t.”
“Drinking and doing drugs?”
“Drinking, for sure. He’s an alcoholic. As for the drugs, I think so too.” His brow furrowed. “Maybe he even used some prostitutes—I remember an argument that made me think that. Anyway, he went off the rails, and Mom threatened to divorce his ass if he didn’t make amends. For whatever reason, we switched churches. We went from moderate Lutherans to Pentecostal Christian.” He rolled his eyes. “Things changed overnight.”
“Couldn’t make much more of an extremist switch,” I consoled with a grimace.
“It was a nightmare. But it made me realize that I could never be open about who I am. What I am.” He bit that plump bottom lip of his. “It hurt, but I thought I could do it. Then, Chelsea, my ex-girlfriend, applied to NYU, and I thought I’d try for Columbia. Why not, right? Spread my wings in some ways even if it wasn’t that. She didn’t get in, but I did. She thought I’d stay close by with her because we were engaged—”
“You were engaged?” I burst out, stunned by that admission.
He shot me a wary look. “Yeah. I’d had some BJs from an ex, but other than that, I was still a virgin. Chelsea wouldn’t put out without a promise ring, and I had to know if I could do it with her, so I pre-proposed.”
“Christ,” I rasped. “Was she from your church?”
“It was a fuck up,” he conceded with a sigh, the truth in his eyes. “And I have a lot of regrets. But the one thing I don’t have on my conscience is marrying her, getting her pregnant, making a family together, and then cheating on her. Something like this... you can’t bottle it in. It’s who you are. It’s who I am.”
“I get that,” I said softly, but because I was curious, I prodded, “Did you break up before you came to New York?”
“No. She was pissed at me, but I was adamant about going, and we stayed ‘together’ for a year. I was waiting on her to break up, and it worked. Thank God. She said I was more distant emotionally than geographically.” He smiled. “I always liked Chelsea. Just as a friend and not a lover.”
The Intern: An MM Office Romance Page 15