“Hey, Grace?” Gideon stuck his head into the living room. “Have you seen my cell phone?”
She was buried under Tank and a blanket on the couch and she peered over the top of her book at him. “When did you have it last?”
“When I looked up that egg recipe this morning,” he said.
“Did you check the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“But were you looking like a man?”
“What’s that mean?” he said with a grin.
“It means that it’s probably sitting on the counter and you didn’t see it because most men can’t find anything when they’re deliberately looking for it.”
He laughed. “I checked the kitchen, Grace.”
“Maybe look again,” she said.
He wandered back into the kitchen. “Fine, but it isn’t going to be… well, shit.”
He heard her giggling and the sound made him smile like an idiot. He scooped his phone up from the counter and returned to the living room. “You were right.”
“What’s that?” She peered around Tank’s giant head. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I said you were right and if you make me say it again, there’s a Sunday afternoon spanking in your future.”
“Ooh, promises, promises, Sheriff,” she said.
She petted Tank and returned to her book. He continued to stand in the doorway and grin like an idiot at her. He couldn’t help it. She’d only been staying with him for a few days but already it felt right to him. Like she was meant to be with him.
She is, you moron. You telling her you only wanted her to stay so you guys could fuck the tension away was a real dick move. I’m surprised she didn’t slap you in the face and call you out on that happy horseshit.
The smile dropped from his face. Fuck, he was lucky. The proposal he’d made to Gracie was one made from desperation – he couldn’t stand the idea of not being with her ever again – but that didn’t make it any less horrible. Grace deserved a man who gave her every part of him unconditionally, and that wasn’t him.
Even if Kira didn’t lose her mind if she knew about him and Grace, he could never truly let his guard down. Could never love Grace the way she deserved to be loved. Not when it meant she would die.
Therapy. Please, you asshole, get yourself into some therapy. Grace is not going to die just because you tell her you love her.
“Gideon?” Grace was staring at him over her book again. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. What do you think about steak for dinner? I can grill them.”
“Sure,” she said. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. Tank barked and jumped off the couch, making Grace yelp when his feet dug into her stomach. He raced for the door, jumping and barking like the loveable idiot he was, as Gideon pushed past him.
“Tank. No.” He pushed at the dog’s flank. “To your bed, now.”
Gracie joined them and Tank slouched past her, grumbling in the way that dogs did.
Gideon opened the door. Preacher was standing on the doorstep, his big hand digging into the door jamb, his face the colour of rancid cheese.
Shit. He recognized that look. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Come in, buddy.”
Preacher staggered into the house, clinging to the wall as he closed his eyes. “Shoulda called first. Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay,” Gideon barely spoke above a whisper.
“Preacher? What’s wrong?” Grace said.
Preacher winced, and Gideon held his finger to his lips as he crouched and unlaced Preacher’s boots.
Grace crouched next to him. “Gideon,” she whispered, “what’s wrong with Preacher?”
“He’s got a migraine,” Gideon said. “Can you give us a few minutes? I want to get him settled in the spare room.” He knew Preacher hated anyone seeing him like this.
To his relief, Grace didn’t argue and returned to the living room.
He helped Preacher remove his boots. “Can you make it up the stairs?”
“Yeah,” Preacher grunted.
Keeping his eyes closed and his head down, he followed Gideon toward the stairs. Gideon kept a steadying hand on his arm. “We’re at the stairs.”
He helped Preacher up the stairs and into the spare room. He closed the blinds against the sunlight and helped Preacher strip down to his boxer briefs. The tattoo artist laid down on the bed with a low groan. Gideon pulled the sheet and quilt to his waist. Preacher was sweating and Gideon switched on the ceiling fan then headed to the guest bathroom.
He grabbed the small bucket that was under the sink and brought it back to the room. Preacher was already sitting up on the side of the bed, pain etched into his face, and his hand clamped over his mouth.
Gideon hurried over and handed him the bucket. As Preacher vomited into it, he ran back downstairs and grabbed the gel ice pack he kept in the freezer for exactly this reason. Gracie was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. “Is he okay?”
She winced when the sound of Preacher vomiting drifted down the stairs. “Jesus. The poor guy.”
“I’ll be back,” Gideon said as he grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer and a bottle of water from the fridge.
He ran upstairs. Preacher was still sitting on the side of the bed, and he wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. “Fuck, sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Gideon took the bucket from him and handed him the bottle of water. “Drink.”
Preacher drank a few sips and Gideon set the bottle on the nightstand. “Lie down.”
He wrapped the ice pack in the dish towel and placed it on Preacher’s forehead once he was stretched out on the bed. He took the bucket to the bathroom and emptied and rinsed it before returning it to the spare room.
Preacher hadn’t moved and Gideon set the bucket within easy reach on the floor and pulled the covers to Preacher’s waist again. “The bucket is right beside you.”
Preacher grunted in acknowledgement. Gideon squeezed his shoulder. “You need to go to the hospital? It looks like a bad one.”
“No,” he muttered. “Too loud, too bright. Fucking meds they give won’t do jack shit.”
“Okay. I’ll check on you in an hour or so. Try and get some rest, buddy.”
He closed the door and walked downstairs. Grace was sitting on the deck in his back yard drinking her tea, as Tank laid in the sunshine at her feet. He joined them, sinking into the chair next to Grace’s.
“Should he go to the hospital?” Grace said. “He looked really pale.”
“He doesn’t want to go. I’ve only seen him go once to the hospital and that’s because I forced him to go when he couldn’t stop vomiting.”
“But they have stronger meds and -”
“They don’t really work for him,” Gideon said. “He’s tried a bunch of different ones over the years, and nothing helps.”
“Poor Preacher,” Grace said. “I feel really bad for him. Addie’s mom suffers from migraines and Addison says it’s awful for her. I couldn’t even imagine the pain. How often does he get them?”
“About once or twice a month,” Gideon said.