“Agreed.” Another wave of nausea gripped my insides, and my stomach dry-heaved again. Fuck. “Go. Run. Save yourself.”
“I’m staying.”
I would have called him a masochist if another dry-heave hadn’t seized my insides.
Two days of nausea, vomiting, cramps, muscle aches, and diarrhea went by. And even though—against my wishes—he had a doctor come visit who asserted that I didn’t need to be hospitalized, Dane hovered around me like I was on my death bed. I was surprised he didn’t invite my family and friends here to “say their goodbyes” or something.
He insisted on working from home, as if leaving me would somehow worsen the stomach bug. In fact, he hardly left my side. I wouldn’t say he was sweet or sympathetic. He was gruff and bossy and curt, seeming a little out of his depth.
He kept flicking from one website to another, comparing lists of symptoms to be sure there was nothing he was missing. He felt positive it was food poisoning and was ready to call up the Italian restaurant until he read—again, on a website—that symptoms of food poisoning could take weeks to come on, so I could have caught it from any number of places. The doctor who came to visit had confirmed that.
Melinda, Wyatt, and Simon stopped by to see me, but Dane didn’t let them stay long, claiming I needed my rest. Which they all seemed to think was beyond cute, but they didn’t say as much to him. Nor did they comment on how much he needlessly faffed over me—ensuring I had drinks of water close by, keeping me covered with a blanket, handfeeding me crackers—like I couldn’t do anything for myself. It was pretty sweet, really.
Although the symptoms passed after two days, I was still groggy and felt like shit. I worked from home for the next few days. Dane, to my surprise, did the same.
By Sunday morning, I was fully recovered and raring to go back to work the next day. He got all snarly and surly. He thought it would be better if I took it easy for another week or so. I thought it would be better if he shoved that idea up his ass.
Standing in the middle of the den, I sighed. “I was sick, Dane, not terminally ill. I’m fine now. There’s no reason why I can’t go back to work.”
“You’re not at one-hundred percent yet,” he insisted.
“No? I feel it.” I crossed to him, touched by his concern but also a little exasperated. “The doctor told you there was no reason I couldn’t go back to work.” Which I knew had pissed Dane off. He’d been relying on the doctor to back him up.
“You can keep working from home.”
“No, I can’t. Nor do I want to. You’ve put off countless meetings, and many people are eager to reschedule—especially some guy named Blake Mercier, who called three times today. Stop clucking like a mother hen, I’m fine.”
“You had food poisoning, Vienna. That’s not always simple to recover from.”
I let out a pfft sound. “I had a stomach bug.”
“Even the doctor said it could have been food poisoning.”
“Yes, could have been. But he couldn’t be sure without a fecal sample. And I’m quite certain you’ll remember that I hadn’t been able to provide him with one. I’d been fresh out of shit. Literally. My body had purged itself in a major way.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Only you, Vienna. Only you.”
“Even if it was food poisoning, that wouldn’t mean I have to work from home any longer.”
A muscle in his cheek ticked. “You have to promise to tell me if you get too tired or need to go home.”
I almost rolled my eyes. “I promise.”
He sighed. “Then we go back to work tomorrow. You know, a lot of people would find it weird that that makes you smile.”
“I consider myself lucky that I have a job I enjoy.” But after Dane and I divorced, I’d lose the position for sure. And I’d miss the fuck out of it, just as I’d miss the fuck out of this man who’d been a very attentive—albeit curt and rude—nurse.
I got the feeling he’d never watched over someone who was sick before. He could have asked another person to stay with me. He could even have hired someone to do it. But he hadn’t. I wished he had, though, because he just kept sneaking deeper beneath my defenses with every sweet thing he did.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning. “You don’t feel sick again, do you?” He actually felt my forehead to check my temperature.
I had to fight a smile. Yeah, my defenses stood no chance against this side of him. “I’m fine, Nurse Nancy. Thank you for taking care of me, by the way.”
He shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “It was a one-off. If you’re ever ill again, you’re on your own.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
I’d seen Dane like this before. Four other times, in fact. And always on November 1st each year.
He was colder than usual. Harder. Apathetic. So incredibly distant that his gaze seemed to skim over people, like he’d dissociated from everyone around him—it was hard to explain.
The others in the room had noticed, despite him barely saying a word. The latter wasn’t unusual when he met with the development team; he often allowed them to do the talking. He mostly listened, offered input where necessary, and let the team members work through their ideas. But this afternoon, they were too distracted by his icy demeanor to be productive. That wasn’t good at all, because he had far less tolerance with indecisiveness and ineptitude when in this state of mind.
A few of them glanced at me for guidance. I just waved my hand, encouraging them to continue. The absolute worst thing they could do would be to ask him if he was all right. He’d bite their fucking head off. He wouldn’t yell or rave, but he’d speak in that low voice that dripped with frost and could lash you like a whip.
It didn’t take a genius to work out that this particular date was somehow significant to him, so I was usually prepared for the change. But this year, I hadn’t seen it coming. We’d had such a blast yesterday at the Halloween festival. Well, I had a blast. He’d behaved much as he had at the zoo and the museum—he’d enjoyed himself in his own way. So the abrupt change in him earlier today had come as a shock.
He hadn’t been there when I woke, which was rare. I’d wondered if he was in the kitchen making breakfast for us or something, so I’d quickly gotten ready for work and headed downstairs … only to discover that he was nowhere to be seen.
I’d gone in search of him and eventually found him in his office. When I’d entered the room and found myself the focus of that vacant stare, I’d remembered the date. Rather than ask if he was okay—I’d learned from past experience that it was best not to draw attention to the change in him—I’d asked if he was coming down for breakfast.
“I’ve already eaten,” he’d said, his tone flat. “I’ll meet you in the foyer when Sam arrives.” And then he’d turned back to his computer, dismissing me.
Deciding to give him whatever emotional space he seemed to need, I’d left the office and eaten breakfast alone.
He’d barely spoken a word during the drive to o-Verve. Had barely even looked at me, actually. Although there’d been mere inches between us on the leather seat, I might as well have been looking at him through plate glass. It was like he’d erected four huge walls around himself. No one was getting through them, and they’d be a fool to try.