"Why? Is she in trouble?" His voice perked up a fraction, and I realized he must have been just as worried about her as I had been. We met twice a week to spar and sometimes more often to hang out, but I had studiously avoided bringing up Arabella in case it put our friendship on the rocks again. He'd finally forgiven me for messing with Gemma, and I hadn't wanted to stomp all over that fragile alliance. But at the moment, Ara's needs trumped friendship.
"Oh, she's in deep shit. Not that she'd admit it." I searched the bar counter for a pen and found one under a stack of magazines by my toaster.
"Of course, she won't," Rook muttered. "That woman needs a fucking intervention."
I smiled mirthlessly and clicked the pen open. "My thoughts exactly."
"She's going to hate you for it, you know," he cautioned.
I licked my thumb and turned to the first page of the lease agreement. "I'm aware."
Rook sighed, and I could practically imagine him dragging his hand down his face. "You'd better go, then. Make her life hell until she's safe."
"You got it." I signed the lease. Park City it was.
Chapter fourteen
Arabella
My fever dreams were wild.
My horse, Spets, swam through a cresting wave of snow, only to be swept up in a tornado along with… seals? The dream was both terrifying and bizarre enough to clue me into the fact that it wasn't real. I rode the snow wave, rising and falling, and when it settled again, I found myself waking up in my own bed. Bright sunlight streamed through the sheer, floral-pattern curtains, and I peered at it through crusty eyes. That couldn't be right. I never woke up after the sun.
I never wake up after the sun.
Gasping, I sat up in bewildered panic. My head swam, and my vision tilted so dangerously, I had to lie down again. Was it possible to feel like I was going to fall over just sitting up in bed? The answer was yes. I pressed my hot face back into the pillow with a pained groan. My whole body ached. I couldn't draw a deep breath. What the hell was wrong with me?
"Oh, that would be the pneumonia," a familiar voice saidwaytoo cheerfully. "Severe fever tends to make patients disoriented."
It couldn't be. He wouldn't dare. I lifted my head again, feeling my pink hair fluff around me as I forced my eyes to focus ahead of me. Spencer had crouched down at the side of my creaky bed, and he tilted his head to hold my gaze. I scowled.
He looked almost exactly the same as he had a year ago, but his hair was shorter again, this time swept back instead of in a bun, and the sides had been buzzed with neat precision. He had the same, strong Viking jaw and soft eyes that had always drawn me to him, whether I wanted them to or not. He'd let his beard grow out a bit, adding a rugged charm to his appearance I couldn't help but resent. Howdarehe show up in my home looking like a whole fucking snack?
"Wha—" I started to ask, but my body chose that moment to collapse into painful, body-wracking coughs, and I curled inward again, holding myself together like I might explode.
A warm, strong hand rubbed my back in circles. "Andthatwould be the bronchitis. Good thing you waited until you were on thebrink of deathbefore calling me." His voice held a strong note of censure, and I wondered at that with some curiosity. Spencer didn't get angry often. Well, with most people. Apparently, I got his blood boiling pretty quickly because he'd been nothing but cross with me.
My coughing stopped, and I glared at him from my side, resigned to the fact that getting up wasn't an option at the moment. "This isn't what I called you for," I croaked.
"Oh, I don't care what you want," he replied with affable calm. "You're getting medical care and as many lectures as I can fit in between. Knox is furious with you."
I glared harder. "And?"
He tapped my nose with irritating softness. "And you're in big trouble."
"Get out of my house," I rasped.
He laughed, but there wasn't much humor behind it. His eyes didn't crease, and he considered me with an almost dangerous edge to his expression. "This ismyranch, Bee. And you're going to do exactly what I say if you want it back."
My lips parted in silent outrage. "You—"
"Starting with all the drugs. I practically bought out the pharmacy down the road." He ignored my indignation and stood, turning to walk over to my beat-up old dresser. He was wearing a simple, black knit shirt that hugged every one of his defined muscles. I hated myself for noticing. With his back to me, he grabbed three orange pill bottles and a water bottle off the dresser. When he turned back to me, he held them up meaningfully. "You're a mess."
My brows drew together so hard, I was giving myself a headache. "I'm not taking drugs from you."
"Hm." He pushed out his lower lip, looking around. "I guess I could get used to this place. Not sure where you're going to live, though."
He did own my ranch, Goddamn him. "You're bluffing," I scratched out.
