Kind of Cursed Page 19

  “Quit it, Harry,” he complains, sounding cranky. “I don’t feel good.”

  Shit.

  The twins and I exchange glances.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?” Mattie asks, stepping closer.

  Without opening his eyes, Emmett frowns. “My throat hurts.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  MILLIE

  I’m climbing a glacier.

  I’ve never done anything like this before. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never trained or practiced. I just know It’s cold, I’m tired, and I can’t let go.

  When I look up, it’s just craggy ice as far as I can see. Like The Cliffs of Insanity in The Princess Bride. I look down, and there’s nothing but clouds. If I fall from here, I’ll just keep falling forever.

  The pack I’m carrying is so heavy. The straps dig into my shoulders, and my back aches with its weight. I want to take it off, but there’s nowhere to set it down. Just sheer ice. I reach above me for a handhold, but the next one is so far above my head.

  I stretch up, bounce on my toes, trying to get the height I need, but it’s not enough. I press my body against the wall of ice, lengthening out as much as I can.

  It’s so cold. I’m just so cold.

  I reach and reach, but there’s no hope for it. I wail in defeat, and the freezing air rakes my throat with cold.

  Breathing hurts. I can’t climb any higher. I can’t get back down. Down doesn’t exist anymore. All I can do is cling to the ice. But I can’t stay here for long. I’ll die out here.

  And then I look down at my feet. The block of ice beneath them has grown slick. I’ve stood here for so long, the heat of my body has started to melt it from underneath me. And I know that what’s holding me up won’t last.

  I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall.

  “Millie.”

  I open my eyes. I’m shivering, curled into a tight ball. I blink at the darkness, sure I heard Luc’s voice. Was it in the dream?

  “Luc?” I rasp, feeling like a fool. What would he be doing here in the middle of the night?

  Shadows move and a hand lands on my shoulder. I suck in a startled breath.

  “It’s just me,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  But I’m not scared. I’m relieved. Luc being here with me is so much better than hanging from the frozen Cliffs of Insanity. Even if my teeth are still chattering.

  Luc’s hands cup my cheeks. “Dios mío, your fever has spiked.”

  I groan. Every muscle, bone, and joint in my body has rebelled. Words seem out of reach.

  Until Luc switches on my bedside lamp.

  “Aah! What are you doing?!” I cover my eyes, but spears of light have already skewered them.

  “Shh...You’ll wake the kids. I’m getting you some medicine.”

  You’ll wake the kids.

  I unravel his words as I hear the snap of a bottle cap and the rattle of pills.

  “What time is it?” I manage to whisper this time.

  “A little after two.”

  “In the morning?” I ask, incredulous.

  Luc’s hushed chuckle brushes over me. “Yes, boba. Put out your hand.”

  I keep my hands to my eyes. “Turn out the light first.”

  Click.

  I peel one hand away, and Luc catches it in his.

  “Can’t see a friggin’ thing,” he mutters, but I feel him press two tablets onto my palm, and then he closes my fingers over them, cupping my hand in both of his. “Take those. I’ll hand you the water.”

  I obey and grope until the bottle meets my hand. Then Luc’s arm slides behind my neck as he helps me to sit up. Swallowing is fresh agony, and the water sets my teeth chattering again.

  “Is the h-heater broken?”

  He lays me back on the pillow, cradling the back of my head. “No, linda, it’s the fever.” The side of the bed depresses with his weight. “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”

  A shiver runs through me. “I’m so cold.”

  His hand closes around my arm. “You’re shaking. Where are extra blankets?” Luc starts to rise, but I grasp his wrist. He stills. The darkness makes everything unreal. Like a continuation of my dream. But I know I’m awake. I know, despite all logic, that Luc really is in my room. And I know that no matter the reasons I shouldn’t be, I’m so glad he is.

  My throat is on fire. My body aches like I’ve been knocked to the ground and kicked. Medicine and blankets are okay. But I remember what it felt like to be in Luc’s arms, and all I want is for him to hold me. I just can’t ask for that. Not after I pushed him away. Not ever.

  I let go of his wrist.

  “Millie,” Luc whispers. He still hasn’t moved. “Tell me what you need.”

  He’s talking about medicine and blankets, right?

  I turn on my side, facing him, and draw my knees up to get warm. I try not to shiver. “I’ll be okay as soon as the fever breaks.”

  “Millie.” He’s still whispering, but I hear an edge of impatience. “Tell me what you need.”

  He must be crazy if he thinks I’ll tell him I need him to climb into this bed and hold me. Besides, I don’t need that. Sure, I want it really, really bad. But we all know how that song goes.

  “Just sleep,” I say. And, okay, fine. I sound about as convincing as a used car salesman, but I’m running a fever after all.

  Luc grunts a sigh. “Mujer obstinada,” he growls, and the bed dips again. “Move over.”

  “What?”

  But his body just crowds mine, so I scurry to the side like a maimed crab. Before I even cross the middle of the bed, one of Luc’s arm hooks me around my middle and tilts me onto my side. He stretches out behind me and tugs me into him, spoon-wise.

  At first, all I feel is shock. But then all I know is Luc. The length of his body pressed to mine. His delicious heat soaking into my freezing skin. His arm like an iron band across my stomach, caging me to him.

  And my sigh is like the breaking of a dam. Luc feels so good I could weep. I nearly do. The ache in my throat doubles with it, and I can’t speak. Can’t thank him for giving me this gift.

  Instead, I lay my right arm over his. He gives me a squeeze in response.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I’m not shaking anymore. This must be obvious. But the chance of sobbing as I draw breath is high, so I hold it and nod instead of answering. He can’t see, but with my head tucked into the hollow beneath his chin, I know he can feel it.

  How is it possible that he’s here, holding me, right when I need to be held?

  How is it that he knows exactly what I need—what we all need—every time? Whether we need to smash some tile or kick the soccer ball in the yard or eat chicken tortilla soup.

  Or be kissed.

  And how come, whatever we need, he just gives it?

  Of its own accord, my hand squeezes his forearm. It’s slight, but he nuzzles the top of my head in response.

  How is it that he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

  At least, I don’t think he does. Would he have kissed me? Be lying in bed with me if he did?

  No. No. Definitely not. Not the man who fired a guy for talking about my loose caboose. That’s not the sort of man who cheats.

  Luc is a good man. He should be with someone who has all kinds of good to give back to him.

  This thought does nothing to help the ache in my throat, but I swallow against it anyway.

  “What are you even doing here?” I rasp.

  He exhales, and I feel it in my hair. “I’ll tell you in the morning. Go to sleep.”

  I realize he’s probably exhausted. But as bad as I feel, I’ve been sleeping for hours. I’m wide awake. And what’s happening now—me, lying in Luc’s arms—will never happen again. So I want to savor it.

  I lie here, taking it in. It would be wrong. I know it would be wrong to touch him after he falls asleep. Nowhere creepy like below the belt. I’m not a perv.

  But his
hands. The curve of his shoulder. The spots where his dimples hide.

  I won’t do it of course, but I get a heady thrill knowing I could.

  But when he falls asleep, I am so going to turn over so I can look at him. Even in the dark, I know how beautiful he is. And if I can stay awake until the sun comes up, who knows how long I can look?

  He’s so beautiful.

  For now, I’ll have to content myself with the feel of him behind and around me. And that’s pretty damn good, I have to admit. The steel of his thighs against the back of mine. His chest pressed to my spine. Luc’s arm wrapped around me feels like it belongs there. Like I belong here.

  I know I don’t. But I can pretend for one night.

  Pretend that I have this every night. And then I can remember it. The way I remember his kisses.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  I jump like I’ve been caught stealing. My heart practically hammers in my nose. Has Luc been listening to my thoughts for the last ten minutes? I can tell now he has been awake. His muscles haven’t relaxed. His breathing hasn’t drawn out.

  Definitely no snoring.

  “Why aren’t you?”

  He makes a kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Because.” The wall of muscle surrounding me tenses.

  I frown into the darkness. “Because is not an answer. Why?”

  He heaves a massive exhale, the ultimate sound of resignation. “Because I’m worried about you.”

  My head jerks to look over my shoulder, but I can’t meet his gaze. I shimmy around until I can roll over and face him. There’s only enough streetlight to make out his shape. I can’t even see the glint of his eyes. “Why are you worried about me? I’m fi—”

  “Don’t say it,” he warns, and again, I’m reminded of the mysterious egg treatment. What the hell does his grandmother do? Does it involve eating a raw egg? Does exposure to salmonella cure colds and flus? Is it worse than eating a raw egg? Like some kind of egg enema? This may be one of those things I don’t want to know.

  But I do want to know why he’s worried.

  “Tell me.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. I wish I could see him better. Still, I shouldn’t be complaining. His arm is still around me. Our knees and feet touch. Being this close to him feels like floating in a pool on an inflatable raft. Sun warmed. All the time in the world.

  “It’s not like you.”

  I’m tipped off my pool raft. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”

  It sounds like he’s smiling. I want to touch his face, but I keep still. It’s not too hard. My arms and legs feel so heavy anyway.

  “It’s not like you not to insist on answers.”

  He’s right. I do insist on answers. From him. I have since the day we met. He must think I’m such a bitch.

  Am I a bitch? Was I always a bitch? Or have I just become one in the last six months? The thought makes my eyes sting. I blink them mercilessly so they don’t fill.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. The words should sound defensive, but through the swelling in my throat, they just come out scratchy and weak.

  “Yes, you do.” He’s laughing gently, but I still feel it through the mattress and where we touch. “You asked what I was doing here, and I told you I’d tell you in the morning. Any other day, that would never fly.”

  He’s right again. I can’t tell him that I’m just so glad he’s here that it doesn’t matter why. That I’d rather have him here than anyone else. Than anything else. So I say something else instead.

  “Why are you still here?”

  Luc gives a knowing hum. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to freak out.”

  I bolt up on my elbow. “Oh God, what’s wrong?” My head spins and maybe I sway, but I ignore it.

  The bed shakes with Luc’s laughter. He cups the back of my head and eases it down to the pillow.

  “It’s okay.” The way he says it makes me believe him. “It’s just that Emmett’s sick too.”

  “What?!” I try to jump up again, but Luc is ready for me, his arm a bracing weight against my efforts.

  “He’s okay, Millie,” he croons. “We took his temperature: 100.3. We gave him some Children’s Motrin, and he’s asleep on the twin bed in Harry’s room.”

  I absorb all of this. In my current state, it’s a lot to absorb, and not all of it makes sense. “Why is he in Harry’s room?”

  Luc’s arm relaxes. Now that I’m not a flight risk, he moves his hand up to my head and brushes my hair behind my shoulder. I’m not so addled that I don’t recognize how good it feels.

  “Two reasons. One, so Harry could keep an eye on him,” he says, softly, his fingers idly brushing through my hair in a way that makes it hard to keep my eyes open. “And two, so I could crash in Emmett’s room.”

  “You were sleeping in Emmett’s room?” I ask surprised. Of course, he’d have to be sleeping somewhere. “Why?”

  “To be close to you.” My heart bucks like a rodeo bull, and then he quickly adds, “In case any of you needed something.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can manage.

  “I wasn’t about to leave with both you and Emmett sick.”

  “No, of course not,” I say dumbly. But it’s not a matter of course. Who else would have stayed under the circumstances? All night? Sleeping in an eight-year-old’s room after feeding and taking care of the whole family?

  Not many people. Not Carter.

  It’s too much to ask.

  I’d like to do something. Give Luc something. But the only thing I have to offer right now is a fever and sore throat. He wouldn’t want that.

  He’s lying on his side, facing me. I’m not going to kiss him. That would gross him out. And if it didn’t gross him out, it would confuse the hell out of him.

  I’m confused, and I still want to kiss him.

  I reach up and touch his cheek. “Thank you so much.”

  Luc covers my hand with his, pressing it closer. I feel his smile. Somewhere under my palm, a dimple is shining in all its naked glory.

  “It’s nothing,” he whispers.

  “It’s not nothing,” I counter.

  The smile under my hand grows. “Okay, boba, it’s not nothing. It’s something, but it’s something I want to do.”

  I can’t go anywhere safe with that, so I get prickly instead. “Why are you calling me boba? What does it mean?”

  He chuckles. “It means a few things,” he hedges, keeping my hand pressed to his face, “but the way I’m using it means silly.”

  “Silly?” I frown. “What else does it mean?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head, and my hand goes with it. “Don’t ask. You’d just get mad.”

  I jerk my hand away. “Mad? What does it mean?”

  He snatches back my hand—laughing harder now—and brings it back to his face, except it’s not my hand now, but my fist, balled tight.

  “I’m just going to look it up on my phone,” I threaten.

  “Where is your phone?” he asks, sounding like a know-it-all.

  And this question makes me wonder. I have no idea. I remember David putting me in the car with my purse. I hope it’s not still in the car. David parked in the drive, and I doubt anyone moved the car into the garage. Our neighborhood is beautiful, but there are car break-ins all too often.

  I tug at my arm, but he doesn’t even loosen his grip. “Where is my purse?”

  “It’s downstairs.”

  “Hmph.” I let my arm go slack. We both know I’m not up for a trip downstairs just to get my phone to look up a stupid word. But then it hits me. Luc probably has his phone on him. I’ve seen him on the phone maybe a dozen times. If he has it on him, it’s in his right front pocket, which right now would be the side that’s toward the ceiling, not the one he’s lying on.

  My left hand is trapped under his right. I’m lying on my right side, but maybe…

  I slide my right arm down, gliding over the mattres
s between us. “Are you going to tell me what else it means?” I might as well give him one last chance to come clean.

  Luc snickers. “No. You’re in a fevered state. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

  That does it. “Fine.”

  My hand shoots down to his jeans in search of a bulging pocket. I find a bulge. But it’s not his pocket. And that’s definitely not a phone.

  He jolts. “Aah! Millie, what the fuck?!”

  In a clash of hands, torsos, and hips, I’m on my back, arms pinned above my head, a panting Luc on top of me.

  It should be noted I’m panting too.

  “What are you doing?” he rasps.

  “I—just—sorry,” I squeak. What am I doing? I can’t even think of an answer, much less put words to one. All I can process is that Luc is on top of me. And if I thought spooning with him felt amazing, this is light years better.

  Because that bulge that is assuredly not a cell phone is about two inches away from where I’d really, really enjoy it.

  And, shit. Does he just carry that thing around? Fully loaded like that? All the time?

  His face hovers above mine, and I know—though I can’t exactly see—he’s frowning. Waiting for an answer. I owe him that.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage. “I shouldn’t have done that. I-I was reaching for your phone.”

  “W-what?” His lungs constrict, and I feel the shock of it through my body.

  I also feel incredibly stupid. “To look up the word,” I admit weakly.

  He stares down at me, not saying a thing. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Probably about how much of an idiot I am.

  “¿Qué estoy haciendo? You’re sick,” he hisses, and rolls off me. The loss of him is almost enough to make me whimper.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, still sounding out of breath. “I’ll go.”

  I grip his hand. “Please don’t.”

  I know it’s wrong. It’s selfish and inconsiderate. But the last thing I want is for him to leave. He’s propped up against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. The hand beneath mine is stiff, thrumming with tension.

  “You want me to stay?” he asks finally.