“OK. I’ll be right back. Stay here.” She left the room swiftly. The previous alarm in Polly’s voice had been replaced with steady authority. A professional reflex, no doubt, but it also had the unfortunate side effect of making me imagine Polly returning to the room in a white lab coat with nothing underneath.
A couple of minutes later, I heard the urgent cadence of her footfalls coming down the hallway, then smelled her floral perfume floating over me before the bed dipped as she came to sit next to me again.
“Max’s bee pack came in handy. I brought Benadryl and the steroid cream. I had some allergy eye drops on hand, too, and a cold cloth. Do you think you can sit up?”
Her guiding touch was light on my shoulder as I sat. I tried opening my eyes, but the burning still made it too painful.
“Here. This is the liquid Benadryl. It’ll make you sleepy, but it’ll help.” Polly’s touch was gentle, but deliberate as she opened my hand, placing a little cup into it.
“Jace?” she asked after I took the medicine. “This is the second time I’ve seen you with a rash on your face. Does this happen frequently?”
“Only rarely now.” I groaned in relief as I laid back down.
“How rarely?”
“I used to get rashes like this when I was younger and used whatever shampoo was already in the shower. Now that I stick to the same shampoo and stuff to style my hair, it hasn’t happened in years.”
I scratched my forehead only for Polly to grab my hand, stopping me.
“Jace! That’s what an allergy is! That’s not normal.” Her tone was two parts exasperation and one part amusement.
“Really?”
She laughed and I could hear the sympathy in her voice. “Yes. Now let me put in some eye drops, it will help.”
That’s all the preamble I got before she pried my eyelids open and efficiently put one drop in each eye. I flinched and blinked rapidly; they burned like a mother fucker.
“Big baby,” she teased, low and raspy.
I heard the pop of a cap opening and then Polly was smoothing lotion over my forehead and around my eyes. Her soft breaths came out like pants. I had to picture sitting next to my Gran in church to keep from reacting as Polly continued torturing me in the best way possible.
A sigh escaped me when she put the cold cloth over my eyes, feeling the swell of her breasts press against my chest as she leaned over me.
It felt like heaven.
The cool cloth felt good, too.
“You rest. I’ll come check on you later.”
I reached out blindly and caught her hand. And maybe it was my imagination, but as I brushed my thumb along the back of her hand, I swear I heard a soft exhale.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping our hands entwined for a few more moments.
Polly eventually placed my hand beside me on the bed, letting it go, but then, very deliberately, Polly stroked her fingertips across the top of my hand before stepping away.
I would’ve given anything to see her face right then, to know what she was thinking.
“Rest now.”
Polly’s voice was liquid metal: smooth, scalding hot, and dangerous.
Because the way that Polly was acting today, her coy smiles, the lingering touches, the definitely-not-imagined massage to my scalp this afternoon, it all gave me hope.
And while my brain knew it’s the hope that kills you, someone would have to explain that to my heart.
And the idiot in my pants.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
