Billionaires Dollar Series

“Come on,” I tell Skye as we slide to a stop. “Time to get out.”

She makes a valiant effort at opening the door but it barely budges, her arms weak with fever. Charles is there an instant later and she shoots him a delirious smile. “Thanks, Cole,” she mumbles.

Charles gives me a look that is more concerned than amused. With his graying hair and mustache, we look nothing alike. “I’ll head to Dr. Johnson’s right away.”

“Excellent.”

I wrap my arm around Skye and take her purse from her dangerously lax grip. She doesn’t protest as I help her unlock her front door, or as we walk the flight of stairs up to her apartment.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

I push her door open as soon as she unlocks it. “God,” she breathes. “Finally home.”

And then she does something I don’t expect.

She faints.

I catch her before she sails to the floor, my arms under her in a heartbeat. Her body is limp and far too hot as I carry her into the small apartment and kick the door closed behind me.

“Damn it,” I tell her, not that she’s listening anymore. “And you didn’t want a doctor?”

I find her bedroom, laying her down gently on the queen-sized bed. Taking a seat next to her, I touch both her forehead and her wrist. Fainting is one thing, but being unconscious is quite another.

“Skye?” I ask. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes blink open. They struggle to focus, finally landing on my face. “Hey,” she says weakly. “What are you doing here?”

I want to laugh in relief. Instead, I pull my hand from hers and start untying the laces of her shoes.

“You’re sick.”

She covers her face. “So that’s why I feel awful.”

“Yes.” I get both of her shoes off and she immediately turns over, snuggling deeper into bed. With one hand she searches for the comforter and I help pull it up and over her. Her eyes drift closed.

As she rests, I explore the rest of her apartment. It’s not hard to find a tall glass of water or a small towel from her bathroom, which I run under the faucet. I gently put it on her too-hot forehead.

She sighs a breath of relief. “That’s good. Very good.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“For what?”

“This.”

“Don’t be,” I say. “We all get sick. No fault of yours.”

Her hand flits over my arm, down to my sleeve, her fingers gripping the fabric. “Will you stay? Just for a little bit?”

I take her hand in mine. “Of course I will,” I say, finding that I don’t mind the prospect. Not at all.

I dream the most absurd things.

Vivid colors and swirling images of faces. I see Karli and Timmy and my sister Isla. I see my mom. I see Cole, and whenever his face drifts into view, he’s wearing a concerned frown. He’s usually smirking, so I know it’s a dream.

I dream that there’s a strange man in my apartment, too. Cole lets him in, even when I beg him not to.

“It’s the doctor,” he tells me in a voice that brooks no arguments. Even convinced he’s a dream, I don’t argue.

The face of an older man with a kind smile swims in front of me. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Johnson. I’ve been told you think you have the flu.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Hot.”

He opens his bag and then I’m poked and prodded, my temperature taken and heartbeat listened to. I close my eyes gratefully when he’s done, seeking the blissful half-dream again.

“She’s running on one hundred and four. No wonder she fainted.”

“She’s been pushing herself very hard with work,” Cole adds, but he doesn’t add that he’s the reason I have to. I consider pointing it out, but my tongue feels heavy.

The doctor puts a hand on my forehead. “How’s your head doing?”

“It hurts like hell,” I mumble. “Except there’s no Virgil to show me around. It’s not nearly as nice as Dante’s.”

Cole’s voice is exasperated. “She’s an English Literature graduate.”

They head into my living room to talk, their voices hushed. It’s draining to try to listen. It’s not long until I’m fighting a losing battle with my eyelids.

“She needs rest and a lot of fluids.”

“I shouldn’t take her to the hospital?”

“Not for a flu. If it gets worse, call me. And I want her to take these. Two pills every four hours.”

“All right.”

“Does she have someone you can call? Can you stay here overnight? She shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll stay,” Cole says.

“If her throat starts feeling sore, make her some tea. Keep the cold towel on her forehead. I’ll leave this thermometer with you-call me if she’s running one hundred and four for more than a couple of hours.”

“I will.”

There’s more talk that I don’t catch, and a door closes. I snuggle deeper into my bed and lose the fight with my eyelids. Every piece of my body is exhausted.

Cold hands put the wet towel on my forehead back into place. It feels divine. “Thanks,” I murmur.