Something like fear, a feeling he hadn’t had since swinging over the edge of a derrick to get to a trapped patient, rippled down his spine.
She had to be okay.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Sometimes, the knitting gets the better of us. It’s okay to ask for help. You’ll be needed at some point, too.
—E.C.
Naomi opened her eyes to the sound of someone calling her name. Cold, she was so cold. Her teeth chattered so hard her vision shook. And everything hurt, every cell of her body screamed for relief.
“Naomi!” The man’s voice was sharp. Loud, in the small bathroom, echoing off the tile floor.
The pain was the worst. As every cramping spell waxed, she could barely breathe, and she choked around the anguish until the cramps waned again.
“Naomi, honey.”
Why was there a man in her bathroom? More specifically, Naomi wondered as she started putting things together, why was Rig in her bathroom? Oh, no. No one should be in here. A vast, horrified feeling of embarrassment swept over her, and tears leaped to her eyes.
“No, no, no, no. Out, please out …”
“Naomi, sugar, tell me what happened.”
She barely heard the endearment, she was so wrapped up in the awful thought that he was in her bathroom, and she knew it must not smell as fresh as a bathroom could. She knew she herself must not smell very good.
Damn, damn, damn. “I told Anna to get you, didn’t I?” Naomi worked herself to a sitting position, shaking off his offer of help. They had to get out of here. To her bedroom, at least. Why the hell had she asked for Rig?
“She said you needed help.”
“I’m fine,” Naomi said. She stood, feeling like a newborn colt, unable to trust her legs. Rig’s arms came out to catch her as she wobbled.
“Don’t need you.”
“You don’t, huh?” Rig stepped back as she walked toward her bed.
A cramp twisted her gut again—she knew it was just pain, she had to get to her bed, but the gasp she let out must have jolted Rig, because his arms were around her before she took a second step.
“I’m helping you to the bed, that’s all.”
“I’m okay,” she lied.
“Then you won’t mind if I do this. Yes, that’s right, easy does it.” Rig held on to Naomi’s elbow as she sat down slowly on the bed. She tipped, landing on her pillow, and he pulled her legs up so that she was lying on her side, facing him.
“Am I as green as I feel?”
Rig smiled. “You’re actually a little more yellow. Mixed with a slight tinge of blue around the eyes.”
“Attractive.”
“I’ll say.” Rig said it like he meant it, and Naomi felt something move inside her that had nothing to do with food poisoning. Her heart did that slow somersault again as he grinned at her. Oh, hell. What should she do now?
He knelt so that he was eye to eye with her. “You think it’s food poisoning?”
Naomi nodded, moving her head gingerly.
“We both ate the pizza the other night …”
“Burrito …”
“What burrito?”
Oh, it hurt to even think about it. “Breakfast burrito at a taco truck.”
“Uh-oh. We should get you tested, you know.”
Naomi turned her head so she could bury it in the pillow. “No.” She knew what he meant, and she’d be damned if she gave him a stool sample. She’d light her feet on fire first. She rocked her head back and forth.
“Yes.”
“Never,” she said into the pillow.
She felt her side of the bed sink as he sat down beside her. “Oh, don’t make me move like that.”
His large cool hand covered her upper arm. It felt perfect, just what she needed. That blessed coolness …
“You’re burning up.”
“I was just freezing a minute ago.” And now she was on fire. She closed her eyes and muttered, “Oh, God.”
“Am I interrupting your prayers?” asked Rig, his tone light. “Because I can go and sit in the kitchen till you’re done.”
“I’m not praying.”
“Okay.”
“Except maybe for death.”
“It’ll come to all of us.”
“That’s your idea of a bedside manner?” she managed before another wave of nausea flooded over her. Death didn’t seem like the absolute worst idea in the whole world.
Rig ran his hand down her arm to her wrist and back up again. She lifted it so he could cover more area. There, yes, the more he touched, the more she felt soothed. Relieved.
“You have a headache?”
Like cymbals of red-hot metal clanging in her brain. She nodded and then regretted the motion.
“I’m guessing shigellosis,” Rig said.
“Yeah.” Short sentences seemed to help, and they were all she could manage around the short gasps of air she was trying to drink, to swallow, as if they would ease the pain.
“I saw Z-Pak at the office—I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“I can get it later,” Naomi said.
Rig laughed. “You’re not serious. You wouldn’t make it two blocks. You can’t drive, and you can’t walk.”
“Then I’ll tough it out. I’m not going to die.” She clutched the edge of her afghan—the only one she’d ever made. The purple yarn cut into her fingers, and for one second she believed herself.
“You’re a doctor.” Rig’s voice was serious. “Don’t be an idiot.”
She would not, could not let him take care of her. She’d asked for him—she could send him away. Naomi had spent a long time taking care of herself. She was good at it. She didn’t need this now. It would practically be an admission of failure, wouldn’t it?
She was just a little sick.
Just then, a shiver shot through her, pain slipping from her head into her stomach, everything seeming to get worse all at once. Rolling over on her stomach, she groaned. Please, God, don’t let me have to go back to the bathroom. Not now, not while he’s here. If she could just get him to leave …
“Yes. Z-Pak.” The words were all she could manage before doubling over again, breathless.
“I’ll be back soon,” Rig said, his voice tight.
Fine. Whatever. Just as long as he left now. Naomi squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend she wasn’t crying, that those weren’t tears leaking from her eyes.
Rig reached forward and took her hand. His was cool and dry, huge against hers. She cracked open her eyes to see if the spinning had stopped, and her gaze was caught by how the light of her lamp illuminated the fine, golden hairs on his arm.
For one second, she felt normal. Wonderful. The feeling of her hand in his, and then, when she looked up and caught his dark, worried gaze—she felt as if she’d forgotten why she was lying in this bed. The last time they’d lain down together had worked out pretty crazy terrific. Was that only the night before last? She closed her eyes again, feeling a tear run across the bridge of her nose.
Then there was the softest touch on her head, just for a moment, as if his cool hand had rested there before moving away. Then, above her shoulder, where her neck was bare, she felt his lips, the slightest touch. Her door shut, and he was gone.
Naomi wobbled upright and touched the place on her neck where he’d placed the kiss. She felt dizzy. Then she staggered to the bathroom again.
Rig managed to get the Zithromax into Naomi, and it stayed down long enough for a first dose. Before she fell asleep, she asked him through a yawn, “Where’s Anna?”
“Jake texted me. She fell asleep on the couch. I told him to keep her there. I’ve got things under control here.”
“Thank you. But you really don’t have to stay.”
“I know I don’t.”
Then she shivered again.
He kicked his shoes onto the floor and pulled her closer to him, then moved the blankets up over them both. Wrapping his arms around her tightly, he whispered, “The
re. Is that better?”
She nodded against his chest. “The last time I let anyone see me sick I was seventeen. Back with my mom.”
“Moms are good for that.”
Even sick, Naomi managed a snort. “She gave me a robe and I promptly threw up all over it. She threw it out, brand new.” A pause. “I just wanted my dad. He loved me.”
“Mothers are hardwired to love,” said Rig. “Maybe she just wasn’t very good at showing it.”
“That’s the thing,” said Naomi, and her voice was the saddest he’d ever heard. “I think she’s a good mother. To Anna. She and I just never saw eye to eye, that’s all. It felt like we didn’t share a language. She was looking for a little charmer, a performer, someone to dress up. She got that in Anna. Me, I was nothing like her. I disappointed her.” Another shudder rocked her, then Rig heard a deep breath, and her breathing slowed, growing regular and heavy.
Naomi fit against him like she’d been made for him, as if the mold that his body had been cut from had originally been a part of hers. Over the course of her restless night, Rig had the opportunity to hold her in many positions: sitting up, lying down spooned, cradled on his chest. Every hour or so, he helped her miserably to the bathroom, and then she’d come back to bed, even more tired than before. No matter how he held her, she dropped instantly back into sleep as soon as her eyes closed.
And even pale as she was, face shiny with dried sweat, her curls tangled as if they’d been in a blender, Rig’s heart twisted when he looked at her. He pressed kiss after kiss into her temple, her forehead, her cheek, and when he did, she snuggled closer to him, her arms wrapping around his neck or his arm, whatever was closest to her. He wasn’t sure if it was just because she was sick, but he hoped not. He loved it.
Rig looked at the way the lamplight fell across Naomi’s cheekbones, putting her lips into shadow. She was still felt feverish—the next time she was awake, he’d force more Gatorade into her, even if she protested. And in the morning, he’d go buy some chicken broth and bring it back to her. Maybe some saltines. She wouldn’t be eating much of anything for at least the next three days, he guessed.
And damn it all if he didn’t want to be there for every second of her recovery. And afterward.
He closed his eyes. Shit.
Go to sleep, Keller, he told himself, but sleep was hard to find. She seemed to be using it all, and for that he was glad, but every time she made a small noise, moved the slightest bit, he went on notice, ready to help.
God, he wished he could snap his fingers and make this go away. If she wasn’t a little better when she woke up, he would haul her ass in for IV fluids. Or if she threw a total fit against it, which he could imagine her doing, he’d bring the IV pole here.
Even in sleep, Naomi’s mouth was twisted, as if she felt the abdominal pain. He couldn’t help it—his index finger moved as if of its own volition and touched that perfect bottom lip. He stroked it softly, just for a second or two, and her mouth relaxed under his touch. Her lips parted and she sighed against his finger. He felt himself grow hard and shifted left so that if she woke, she wouldn’t know. Totally fucking inappropriate. A boner at a time like this—what an eighteen-year-old move. Rig felt himself blush in the dimness. Ridiculous. Thank God she was asleep.
Naomi made a soft sound, and then a sound of stifled pain, rolling to rest against his arm and shoulder.
It was going to be a long, long night. And he wanted to be nowhere else in the world. Rig knew he was in trouble, and he was going to have to deal with it at some point. But not tonight.
He closed his eyes and willed sleep to find him.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Don’t regret a moment spent knitting, even when you’re ripping out hours, days, of work. It all meant something. It always does.
—E.C.
Naomi woke in a pool of sunshine. She opened her eyes warily. Something was, or had been, very wrong. She just couldn’t remember what it was.
She stretched. Oh, God, her stomach felt like she’d been kicked in the gut by a furious horse. The back of her hand stung, and her head felt light. The bedsheets were tangled around her. But the windows were open, and a warm summer wind blew through the room, tickling her nose with the scent of dusty jasmine and mown grass. Something told her she should feel much worse than she did.
Shigellosis. It had dropped her much harder than a normal touch of food poisoning would. But now she felt better, and suddenly … she felt hungry.
It might have had something to do with the smell of toast wafting in through her open bedroom door, but she was ravenous. Everything Naomi thought of to eat—bread, bananas, cereal, ice cream, steak—sounded like the best idea she’d ever had. Knowing her body was probably lying to her and that she should take it easy didn’t prevent her stomach from rumbling hungrily, loudly. Anna must be home. Maybe she’d make Naomi some toast, too.
She stood, careful to hold on to first the nightstand, then the door handle. Making it to the kitchen was more difficult than she’d thought it would be. The hallway she’d always thought short seemed a million miles long. At some point, she’d changed her pajamas to the ones with the cherries on them, and the crazy thing was, she didn’t even remember doing it.
How long had Rig stayed with her last night? Had he helped her change? She’d remember that, wouldn’t she?
She turned the corner to enter the kitchen and almost ran smack-dab into the tall man who was leaving the kitchen in a hurry. Naomi wasn’t able to stifle the scream.
Rig—of course it was Rig—yelled back, “Hoooo! Damn! You scared me!”
“Me?’ Naomi pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down slowly, propping herself against the table for support. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” He pointed at the tray resting on the kitchen countertop. On it was buttered toast on her favorite blue plate, and a glass holding something that looked like Gatorade. A pill was on a napkin, and a banana was halfway peeled, ready to be picked up and eaten. A red rose was at the top of the tray—she recognized it as one of hers from the overgrown garden.
“That’s for me?”
Rig nodded. “I was going to bring it to you in bed before I split, see if I could tempt your appetite, but now that you’re there, just stay.” He set the tray down in front of her.
Naomi picked up a piece of toast and considered her stomach. It twanged, but didn’t lurch or roll. And the bread smelled so good … she took a bite, chewing slowly. Rig watched with what looked like approval.
After a couple of bites and a swallow of the noxious sports drink, she asked, “Where’s Anna?” She’d need her to go in and cancel her appointments for today, or see if they could be shifted to Rig. She was still in no shape to go to work. Naomi knew she could be stubborn, but she wouldn’t play around with this. You didn’t mess with shigellosis, and she was glad she’d taken yesterday off.
The back of her left hand burned, and she looked down at it. Holy hell—there was an access hole and the remnants of tape left on her skin.
Naomi looked up at Rig, who was leaning against her refrigerator, watching her eat. “You gave me an IV?”
He nodded.
Naomi felt her head swim. “When?”
“Yesterday. You were pretty delirious. It was that or take you in to be hospitalized, and I figured you’d hate that.”
“You mean last night? I totally don’t remember.”
“No, yesterday. In the afternoon. I told Anna what to bring me, and she did.”
Math, numbers, days … Nothing added up to the right thing. “But I got sick two nights ago, right?”
“Four nights ago. It’s Saturday. I’ve spent the last three nights with you, and I missed as much work as I possibly could to be here. And you’re doing well to be moving around as much as you are now. So eat, and then go back to bed. I’ve got a project I’m working on this afternoon, but I want to make sure you’re okay before I leave.”
Naomi sat back in the
wooden chair, feeling the top rung dig into her back. She’d lost days? Was that possible? But the more she thought about it, the more things started trickling back into her mind: Rig, holding her for long hours as she shook with cold; his hands around her as she swayed back to the bathroom; a cold washcloth that felt just right; the look of Rig’s jaw at dawn, profiled against the light.
Also: Anna’s face, worried, then hurt.
“What did I say to Anna?”
Rig grimaced and, as if buying time, poured himself a cup of coffee. Turning back to face Naomi, he said, “It wasn’t great.”
Naomi put a hand to her cheek. “What did I say?”
“You should probably ask her.” He pulled the other chair out and spun it so that he could sit backward on it and still face her.
“Is she at the office?”
Rig glanced at his watch. “It’s Saturday.”
“Has she been … here? With me?”
Rig looked almost apologetic. “She didn’t want to stay.”
Oh, dear. So, apparently, when sick, Naomi had said things she didn’t mean to. An echo of a memory sounded in her brain … Anna’s shocked face …
“You can’t remember anything I said to her? Did I mention the baby?”
Rig gave a careful nod. “You did.”
Another memory rocked Naomi, making her feel sick all over again. “Did I … ask why she didn’t get rid of the baby when she found out?”
His lips folded into a line that told her the answer.
“Shit, shit. What did she do?”
“She left. Thought it would be better if you healed up before you had a real conversation. I tried telling her that you were feverish, and too sick to make sense, but she wasn’t listening by that point.”
Naomi slumped in her chair, ignoring how much her body hurt. “I’m a horrible, horrible person.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I hate myself.”
“You said that, too,” said Rig.
“Wow.” Shoving her fingers through her hair was a mistake. “Where’s she been staying?”
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