Danger, Sweetheart Part 23

"I should have told you. I was too chickens.h.i.t. I love you and I love all your weird ways, because our weird ways complement each other."

"This is a wonderful day."

She smiled. Only four hundred steps to go, subjectively speaking. "Is it?"

He squeezed her waist, radically reducing her air supply. "Are you in love with my fever?"

"Definitely not. What's funny is, even though you're delirious, this isn't even the weirdest conversation we've had."

"Is this Florence Nightingale syndrome? No, that would apply if it was me falling for you." He gasped. "Do I have Florence Nightingale syndrome?"

"There's a lot going on with you right now, Blake, but Florence Nightingale syndrome isn't part of it." At last they were in the attic. "Going to put you on the bed now."

"Finally! Ravage me, Natalie Lane!"

She eased him down as carefully as she could, relieving him of his phone on the way. "Okay, first things first, time to make some calls."

"No, you have to undress me first; I don't think we should explore the kinky end of the spectrum just yet. It's not that I won't make love with you while you dial random strangers; I would just prefer something more straightforward for our first coitus."

"For G.o.d's sake."

"Rake said using 'intercourse' to describe coitus was preventing me from having intercourse."

"Yeah, but that's ... that's not better."

"Call it what you will." He flung out his arms dramatically, tried to roll over, failed. "Ah, you don't mind the woman-superior position, do you? I'm feeling a bit light-headed."

"Here's what I like: missionary for intimacy, on all fours for intensity, and me on top for fun."

He stared at her. "I can work with that."

She felt bad for teasing him. "Never mind. When you're feeling better, okay? I mean ... if you still want to. I meant what I said earlier. I won't hold you to any of this."

"How unfortunate for you, because I intend to hold you to all of it. Also, did you take my phone so you can strip me, pose me in humiliating positions, and then take pictures and send them to everyone on my contact list?"

"I took it to call your family, ya idjit."

"I love your adorable pet names for me. Idjit, moron, Vegas Douche-"

"I don't call you that anymore," she was quick to a.s.sure him. "And I'll beat the s.h.i.t out of anyone who does."

"Excellent! You'll solve my Mitch.e.l.l Banaan problem; how clever you are. This is odd."

"Got that right." His iPhone was pa.s.sworded, which wasn't acceptable. She needed family contact info.

"This is odd."

"You said that, baby."

"Baby. Yes. I want to have your baby."

She giggled. "It has been a long time since you've had intercourse if that's what you think will happen."

"Odd."

"Yes, okay, what's your pa.s.sword?"

"When I've pictured you standing over me while I'm in bed, I'm always erect."

"It's just the fever, baby; you'll be getting it up again in no time."

"I like that you aren't afraid to show confidence in my p.e.n.i.s."

"Pa.s.sword, moron." She tried for stern, but exasperated fondness came out instead.

"WWND."

"Okay. Something to do with the House of Lancaster or Richard the Third?"

"What Would Natalie Do."

"Dammit, Blake!" She bent and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. "You're wonderful, even when you're out of your head.

"Did you hear that?" He was relaxing into the bed after trying to grab her and missing by two feet. "You said I was wonderful."

"Rest, Blake."

"You always have good advice."

"Close your eyes, baby."

He did.

Thirty-five.

When Blake next opened his eyes, his mom and grandmother were bending over him. "Aaagghh! My heart. Christ."

"How are you, boy?" Shannah asked, anxiety making her normally firm contralto thready and unsure.

"My brain is on fire."

"That's not far from the truth." Blake noticed another woman preparing to leave. She had gorgeous deep brown skin with reddish undertones, high cheekbones, and small, wide-set dark eyes. Her hair was cut in a neatly trimmed Afro streaked with silver, and she was holding a bag, preparing to depart, but turned when he'd shouted. In his fright upon waking with Shannah and the nuclear option looming over him, he hadn't noticed anyone else at first. "You've got an infection, Mr. Tarbell, and a temp of one-oh-two, an improvement over one-oh-four, which we're bringing down."

"It's okay, Blake," his mother said, as if worried he was going to leap to his feet and charge the woman with malpractice. "I told Dr. Wen about allergies and things."

"I'm not allergic to anything."

"I told her that."

The nuclear option spoke for the first time. "You'll be eating antibiotics for a few days, Blake."

"The breakfast of champions," he muttered. He took a closer look at the doctor. "What is this? Is this a house call? Really?"

"Really," Dr. Wen a.s.sured him. "The clinic closed down and the nearest hospital is over two hours away. For something like this, unless your fever won't break or the infection worsens, it's fine to treat you at home. If it does worsen, there's always the air ambulance."

"A house call," he mused. "Then ... how long have I been asleep? How did I go back in time? It's 1920, right?"

"If it was 1920," was the dry response, "would I be a doctor?"

"Excellent point. All right, run along to the next century, then."

"Good advice." She glanced at Natalie, who was sitting on the foot of the bed, gnawing on a knuckle. "You're right. He's engaging."

"Yes, I'm engaging to Natalie! And she's engaging to me. After I propose. Mom, may I have some money for a ring?" There was no response, and her eyes seemed overly bright. He peered at her and realized, "Are you in your pajamas?"

Shannah glanced down at herself. "Yes."

"Pity, I was hoping it was a fever dream." His mother was inordinately fond of ankle-length velour nightgowns and matching velour robes and slippers in various pastel shades. In winter, she was a walking electric chair, at times generating so much static she fried the thermostat.

"We came as soon as Natalie called us," the nuclear option explained. "Your mother had more important things on her mind than outfit coordination."

"S'fine, Nonna," he said, drowsy again. "Natalie will fix it."

"Whatever you say, Blake." A soothing pat, and Blake noticed his hands had been cleaned and bandaged. He was also wearing his last pair of clean black boxers, and a clean T-shirt.

"No!"

"What?" Every woman in the room turned her full attention on him, including Dr. Wen, who hurried back to his bedside.

"What is it? Pain? Are you having trouble breathing?"

"I missed our s.e.x!" he cried to Natalie, gesturing to his clean clothes. "It must have been incredible!"

"You ... um-" She was so pretty when she blushed. "We didn't. Do that, I mean."

Oh. He hadn't realized he'd been speaking out loud. No problem, it wasn't at all embarra.s.sing, like it would have been if he had said he dreamed of pressing his lips to every inch of her, repeatedly, for the next fifty years.

"Blake."

He knew she would taste even better than she looked and he couldn't wait to catalog all her flavors.

"Blake! Maybe we can talk about this later?"

My G.o.d, Natalie is telepathic! She's reading my mind! This is incredible!

"I'm not telepathic, ya idjit. You're still saying these things out loud."

"The last ones," his grandmother said helpfully, "you shouted."

"So wise, Natalie." He sighed. "Come here and s.e.x me again. I promise to pay attention this time."

"I didn't s.e.x you the first- No. I'm not going to try and have a logical discussion while you're sick."

"So wise. If I die, clear my browser history."

"Now that," she said with a grin, "is the first sensible thing you've said in a while."

Blake slept.

Thirty-six.

Natalie woke with a start; she'd nodded off in the chair beside Blake's bed, which was a miracle. It was a rickety wooden chair she'd dragged up from the kitchen, and not even a little comfortable. It was late morning by the looks of it; the attic was splashed with sunshine and she realized for the first time in forever that she was ravenous. And that she needed to brush her teeth.

As if picking up on her hunger (heh, maybe Shannah's the telepath), the door to the attic opened and Natalie heard Shannah and Ruth coming up the stairs. She could smell the m.u.f.fins and met them at the top.

"Mind readers," she said, then promptly s.n.a.t.c.hed a blueberry m.u.f.fin and wolfed it in four bites.

"Chew, dear; you're no good to Blake if someone has to give you a tracheotomy. Here." Ruth handed her a large gla.s.s of orange juice, which Natalie decimated in three swallows.

"Oh G.o.d, thank you. I had no idea how much I needed that until I smelled you." She was already settling back in the chair beside him. "Uh, smelled the food, I meant. Not that you guys smell." I probably smell, she realized. I think I showered the morning Blake got sick ... or was it the night before? Cripes, what day is it?

"Natalie, I want you to take a nap," Shannah told her. "I haven't seen you sleep since we got here."

"No, I'm fine. He might want me. I'm fine."

"He absolutely does want you," Ruth said dryly, "and don't you think you should get your rest so you'll be ready when he is?"

Is Blake's grandma telling me to rest up for s.e.x?

"I'm fine."

Blake rolled over on his side and slept on. Every woman tensed when he moved and relaxed when he kept sleeping. Natalie didn't know she was going to brush his hair away from his eyes until she did it.

"It's my fault he's sick."

"Do not start, young lady," Shannah warned her. "My son is a grown man and has been taking care of himself since before he was voting age. I warned him about his hands myself."