Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  Shame washes over me. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “I shouldn’t,” I admit. “But I want you to.”

  Luc’s sigh cuts through the room. He sounds confused, frustrated, and it’s my fault.

  “I didn’t mean...” I start, squeezing his hand. “I… I didn’t know.”

  The tension leaves him, and he squeeze back. “You didn’t know what?”

  I gulp. How do I explain what I mean? Maybe it’s better I don’t.

  “Say it.”

  “When I…” I’m so glad he can’t see me. I’m probably turning every shade of red, “...grabbed you.”

  A laugh erupts, shattering the night, and then smothered laughter shakes the bed. Luc squeezes my fingers with one hand and covers his face with the other. He rolls toward me, so we are again face to face.

  “Why do you think I couldn’t sleep?”

  “Oh!” I gasp, covering my own laugh. The urge to reach for him is so strong I give in halfway and touch his face again.

  “And then you did that,” he says, his voice so soft it’s almost painful. “Touched my face.”

  I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be touching him. I start to pull away, but again, he captures my hand and keeps it right there.

  “Not yet,” he whispers, and I can no longer breathe.

  “Luc.” I say his name as if it’s a plea. A plea for him to understand.

  “I know.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do.” He sounds certain. The way he does when he talks about wood and granite. This is just another hard thing.

  “But you don’t,” I whimper.

  His thumb caresses the back of my hand. The one pressed to his beautiful face. How can a touch so small feel so wonderful?

  “Tell me what I don’t understand, linda.” His voice is a warm purr.

  My body is a wreck of fever and soreness, and I never want this night to end. Luc is here. I’m touching him. He’s touching me. I want him. He wants me. And it will never be better than this.

  Then I know I am wrong because his left hand reaches across the distance between us, and he cups my cheek. I smile and I know he feels it. I move my right hand over his left hand at my right cheek, so now we are mirror images.

  Now, it will never be better than this, and I need him to understand why.

  “Luc, I want you, but I can’t sleep with you,” I whisper.

  “Of course not,” he murmurs. “You still have a fever.”

  I shake my head. “No, I mean I can’t sleep with you. Ever.”

  I feel something run through him. Like a shock of stillness.

  “Ever is a long time.” I hear him swallow. “Just me? Is it just me you can never sleep with?”

  I remember him asking at the soccer game if it was because of his heritage. I shake my head, almost frantic.

  “No. It’s anyone. I can’t sleep with anyone.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  LUC

  I awake before dawn and know exactly where I am. Millie is tucked to me, my arm draped over her waist. Her bottom snug against me.

  My balls are going to ache all day, and I don’t give a damn.

  I learned a lot last night, and the most obvious is that lying next to Millie is not a great recipe for sleep.

  Another is that when she’s delirious with fever, she says some crazy shit.

  When she started talking about never being able to have sex, I got a little worried about her. But then she started shivering again, asked me to hold her, and fell asleep in my arms.

  Night has faded into watery light, and it falls on Millie’s head, painting her deep red hair even darker. She sleeps still, but I can tell by her quick breathing and the heat she radiates that she still has fever. I’ve got to get both her and Emmett to a doctor.

  Moving as slowly as possible, I lift my arm off her and reach into my pocket for my phone. It’s ten until six. Later than I usually wake up, but not bad considering last night and how little I slept. Still, it’s Wednesday, and I need to move.

  All at once, the day’s concerns pepper me like a hailstorm. I set the phone down, encircle Millie again, and close my eyes. The world can wait for two more minutes while I hold her and sort out my Daily Three.

  Besides, who knows when I’ll be able to do this again. If I’ll be able to do this again.

  Being this close to her, breathing in the summer sweetness of her hair, feeling the way her body seems to welcome the press of mine—it just feels right. This can’t be the one and only time, right?

  I want you, but I can’t sleep with you.

  If I let myself think about that one comment, I’ll go mad. We’re going to have to talk about that one some more, but not until she’s better.

  Take Care of Millie. That’s priority number one today. I’m not gonna lie. Today isn’t the first day it’s made my three, but today, this one is going to drive everything else. In order to Take Care of Millie, I need to get her and Emmett to a walk-in clinic. Which means I need to make the time to do that, sooner rather than later.

  Taking Care of Millie also means lightening her load. The kids are going to need breakfast, lunch, and dinner today. At a minimum. Last night, Mattie mentioned they were almost out of toilet paper. Who knows what else they need. I might need to call in reinforcements.

  But Taking Care of Millie means protecting her privacy. Donner and Sam are going to show up soon, and I don’t want to be up here when they do. I don’t even want to be downstairs still in yesterday’s clothes.

  Which means I need to make a quick decision about my next two priorities. I prop my head up and look at Millie.

  Fuck Two and Three.

  For the first time in months, I can’t even think of a Two and Three.

  I need to move, but I can’t quite make myself. Memorizing her profile in sleep—the way her hair spreads over her pillow, her spice-colored, down swept lashes, her alabaster skin—I promise myself this won’t be the last time I see her like this. It can’t be.

  The promise is the only way I can get out of her bed. And getting out of her bed is the only way I can think clearly. I scan her room and find a notepad on her dresser. I scribble a message letting her know I’ll be back by nine, and head out.

  Even though it’s only been about twenty-four hours since I last saw my apartment, this morning it feels… barren. Not just empty. Not just quiet. But destined never to be more than empty and quiet.

  I’m used to spending precious little time here. It’s a place to sleep, to eat a quick dinner after work or have a cup of coffee in the morning, but after one night at the Delacroix’s house—a night that included a dinner run, a Marvel movie, and hours in Millie’s bed—it feels like an abandoned cave, and I can’t wait to get out.

  Determined to be back before Millie can wake up and hatch any plans of her own to drive herself and Emmett to the doctor’s, I shower and dress as fast as possible and make quick stops at the two other job sites, checking that everything is in order.

  I pull both site managers aside at each location and fix an easy goal for the day. Jobs they can finish by noon. Or sooner. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. For years, I watched Papi do the same thing for every major holiday.

  It’s only eight-thirty when I get back to the Delacroix’s. Clarence greets me at the door, but despite the whine of the table saw in the garage, no one else is downstairs yet. Upstairs, every bedroom door is shut except Millie’s. Hers is open just like I left it, but the bed is empty.

  Right as I walk inside, her bathroom door opens, and Millie steps out—in the middle of pulling on her jeans.

  “Christ!” I swear.

  “Aagh!” she shrieks.

  I cover my eyes, but it’s too late. Blue on blue lace. The blue on blue lace thong I handled in her laundry room. Adorning her feminine valley. Disappearing into her jeans. For the rest of my life, I’ll close my eyes and see nothing else.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke, gulping
for air.

  “What. The. Hell. Luc?” Her voice sounds like tearing paper.

  I’m the biggest fuck up to ever fuck up. Cabrón. Cabrón. Cabrón.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, still covering my eyes. “I was coming to check on you. I didn’t think you were up.”

  I hope like hell her brothers haven’t heard this. Or Mattie. Or Sam and Donner for that matter. Where the fuck has my professionalism gone?

  “Your note said you’d be here by nine. I was trying to get ready.” She sounds defensive, but, to my surprise, not really upset.

  Blindly, I start walking backward. “I’ll go wait downstairs.”

  “Well, I’m dressed now,” Millie says, her tone comical. “Might as well open your eyes.”

  Deciding it’s better to be a cabrón than a coward, I lower my fists. Millie is glaring at me, her hands on her hips. But she’s holding her mouth tight, like she’s trying not to smile.

  “Relax,” she says, giving in to the smile. “After all, I grabbed your pocket wrench last night.”

  I choke again. “M-my pocket wrench?”

  Millie wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t really work does it? Power drill? Nail gun? I was trying to go for just the right construction penis pun.”

  I convulse with laughter. “Santa Maria, you’re delirious.” I want to reach for her to check her fever, but I’m laughing too hard.

  She shakes her head, laughing now too. “I feel like shit, but I’m not delirious.” She rubs her head, turns, and sits down on the edge of her bed. “I wanted to take a shower, but I don’t think I can stand up that long.”

  Without warning, I picture helping her in the shower, holding her in my arms while she washes her hair, and the laughter dies.

  She moans, but not the way I’m about to, and collapses back onto the mattress. I go to her, sit by her, and put a hand to her forehead. She’s hot. Still. How many days of fever does this make? Two? Three?

  “Let’s get you to the doctor’s,” I say softly. Her eyes are closed. Unwilling to stop myself, I trace the pad of my middle finger over her eyebrows. Their cayenne color leaves me unprepared for such softness.

  In a slow sweep, my finger moves across her smooth forehead.

  You are so beautiful.

  I run my finger along her hairline where the richest red meets the fairest white. She sighs with a contentment I feel through my whole being. Because she lets me, I trail my fingertip down the elegant slope of her nose to the ripe beauty of her mouth.

  Would she let me kiss her again? If she lets me trace the outline of her lips, could I kiss her again?

  My tongue tells the tip of my finger what to do. Touch her right at the seam so she knows I want in.

  Her lashes flutter, her lids lifting just enough so I know she’s watching me. I feel my pulse everywhere. My chest. My throat. The back of my knees. The tip of my finger. I wonder if she can feel it too.

  “What are you doing?” It’s not an accusation. She speaks softly in her hoarse voice, looking at me with just a hint of confusion.

  I don’t take my hand away. She can feel me. I want her to feel me.

  “Planning to kiss you.”

  Her brows lift lazily. “But I’m sick.”

  “I still want to kiss you,” I say with a shrug. She could have the plague and I’d want to kiss her. We still need to talk, but last night changed things. If nothing else, last night changed me. What I think is possible. And what isn’t. Like not kissing her again.

  I take her silence as assent, dip my hand to her chin, and tilt it up for me, giving her plenty of time to protest.

  She doesn’t.

  Leaning over her, I brush my lips over hers. Softly. Patiently. Reverently. She is still sick. I’m not going to ask for too much or take advantage. Just let her know where my head is.

  Where my heart is.

  I press my mouth to hers, and Millie’s breath catches. It’s just my lips against hers. It should feel chaste. Tame. Instead, it feels like driving a Tesla. My blood goes from zero to sixty in 1.9 seconds. And when she touches my face, it’s like I’ve upgraded to one of Elon Musk’s rocket launchers.

  And all of this velocity and heat is trapped within the borders of my skin, only allowed to pass into her where we touch. Lips. Hands. Faces.

  Not enough.

  My tongue is about to seek permission to call on hers when I hear a thump. Millie stiffens beneath me.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  “Shit,” she mutters against my mouth, her other hand flattening against my chest. “They’re up.”

  I admit it takes me a second to parse out what this means. And then I spring from her and get to my feet. I know without her having to say it. She would not want Harry, Mattie, or Emmett to walk in and see us kissing in her bed. For that matter, neither do I.

  Down the hall, a door bangs open. Bare feet slap against wood. Another door in the hall. And then I hear the unmistakable knock of a toilet seat against a toilet lid.

  Followed by the roar of retching.

  “Oh fuck.” Millie pushes up to sitting, but I wave her off.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “But—”

  I’m out the door before she can protest. Another retch emits from the bathroom, and I find Emmett hunched over the toilet bowl, white as paper.

  “Hey, jefe,” I say, leaning against the door frame. Emmett looks up at me, watery-eyed and shivering. And embarrassed. Can’t have that. I nod at the toilet and the still clean floor. “Nice shot.”

  He doesn’t say anything but coughs and spits into the bowl.

  I reach for a clean washcloth on the shelf opposite the sink, wet it, and offer it to him. “Feeling any better?”

  He nods, takes the cloth, and wipes his mouth. I don’t need to touch him to know he’s probably burning up just like Millie, but I put a hand to his forehead anyway.

  “Caliente.”

  He lifts his pale blue eyes to mine. “What’s that mean?” he croaks.

  “Hot. We need to get you and your sister to the doctor’s.” I drop my hand and point to the sink. “But not with puke breath. Rinse and brush first.”

  Emmett looks past me. “Did you throw up?”

  I turn to find Millie behind me, holding her boots in one hand and looking the worse for wear from her trip down the hall.

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” her little brother says, and Millie and I both grin.

  Emmett goes to the sink to clean up.

  “You want to get dressed or go to Minute Med in your pajamas?” Millie asks him.

  He rinses and spits. “Get dressed. I’m not a baby.”

  Millie’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. My face says, He told you. Hers says, Welcome to my life.

  If only she’d actually say those words out loud. I’d take her up on it.

  Chapter Twenty

  MILLIE

  The Minute Med is literally three blocks away. I tried to convince Luc we could manage without him, but he refused to let me drive even that distance.

  I was too tired to argue, so here we are.

  The receptionist gives me two clipboards of paperwork to fill out for both Emmett and me, and we grab a row of seats in the waiting room, which is mostly empty. Only a couple of people are ahead of us.

  “Let me help with that,” Luc says, reaching past Emmett and grabbing one of the clipboards. “You fill in yours and jefe and I will do his.”

  I hold onto it for a second but then let go. I’m too tired to argue about this too, but it’s more than that. It’s just so dang sweet of him, and I don’t know if I can handle it. The boundaries between us have seriously blurred since last night, and it’s messing with my head.

  I let him kiss me this morning.

  It was pretty innocent as kisses go, but still. It must be the fever. My defenses are down. That’s all. When I get some meds and feel better, I’ll be able to fortify the walls.

  Luc clicks the pen in his hand, bri
nging me back to the present. “Okay, Emmett. What’s your full name and birthday?”

  I turn my attention to the clipboard in my lap and start filling it in. Name. Date of birth. Address. Insurance information. Reason for coming in today. Medical history. I breeze through the questions until I don’t.

  Are you pregnant or breastfeeding?

  No. No. And no. I mark an X over the no so hard, I almost tear the paper.

  Have you ever been pregnant? If so, how many live births have you had?

  I stare at the page until it blurs. I don’t know if I can write it down and hold it together. How do you write 0 in the place where there should be a child?

  Without warning, I’m blinking back tears, unable to move. Luc’s questions for Emmett are no more than static. My head throbs. My throat aches. But it’s nothing compared to the crushing in my heart.

  “Hey.” Luc is leaning past Emmett, his hand on my knee. “Everything okay?”

  I swipe my knuckles across my eyes, nod, and flip the page. Why do I even need to answer those questions? I’m here for a fucking sore throat.

  I clear my throat and try to get a grip, moving onto questions about my prescriptions. I’m signing the bottom of the second page when Emmett snort-laughs beside me.

  “No?” Luc asks. “You don’t have hemorrhoids today? Are you sure?”

  My eyes whip to the two of them. Emmett is nearly doubled over in his seat, laughing, and Luc is frowning with mock seriousness.

  “N-No,” Emmett stammers in near hysterics.

  “Hmm. What about flatulence? Are you flatulent?” Luc asks, pretending to check the form.

  “Wh-what does that mean?”

  “Gassy,” Luc says, completely straight-faced. “Are you having excess gas?”

  Like any eight-year-old boy, Emmett nearly comes apart at the seams. Sick or not, Emmett is a big fan of fart jokes.

  I raise a brow at the two of them, but I do it fighting a smile. “Behave.”

  Luc turns his clinical frown to me. “What about you, Miss…” He pretends to glance at my form. “Miss Delacroix, which are you suffering from today? Constipation or diarrhea?”