make it to Saturday?” he’d taunt. Chris would assume a haughty look and tip her nose into the air. “I don’t know what you mean.” And then they would both relax into smiles and chuckles.
Chris bit her lip as she studied Ken. Saturday was an hour and a half away. Her stomach churned at the thought. Nothing had changed in the past two days. If anything, it had gotten worse. She was falling in love. Hopelessly, deeply in love. Every instinct she possessed told her it was a terrible mistake, but she felt powerless to control the direction of her emotions. Just when she needed to be level-headed and logical, she found herself once again blinded by love.
Everything about Ken seemed perfect. Even his mistakes. She cringed as she admitted to herself that she’d actually thought it was adorable when he somehow lost a pot holder in a caldron of spaghetti sauce and didn’t discover it until it had been cooked into oblivion. How could she possibly trust herself to assess his character when she could think of nothing but his dark, unfathomable eyes and terrific tush? Shame on me, she laughed.
Ken opened his eyes and focused them on Chris. “Honey, that was such a naughty laugh.”
“It sort of slipped out by mistake.”
He looked at his watch. “Practicing for Saturday? You only have an hour and a half left.”
The churning in her stomach increased. Dessert rose to the middle of her throat and sat waiting for further instructions. She felt beads of cold sweat break out on her upper lip. “I’m going to be sick.”
Ken sat up. “Are you serious?”
She nodded, covering her mouth with a shaky hand, hoping to ward off nausea.
“That’s impossible. You looked so healthy just a minute ago.”
“I have spent the better part of my life throwing up.” Her voice was shaky. “I have thrown up in every ice rink in the country…and some in Europe and Canada. I have even thrown up in Japan. Take my word for it…I’m going to throw up.”
“Dammit! It was the spaghetti sauce. I knew we shouldn’t have eaten it.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek. “Chris, I’m really sorry. Honestly, I don’t know how that pot holder got into it.”
“It’s not food poisoning-it’s nerves. I always throw up when I get nervous. That’s why I was so relieved to quit skating; I could never get used to performing.”
“Nerves?” His face showed a mixture of concern and amazement.
“You! Saturday,” she choked, running toward his bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. She sat on the cold tile floor and rested her forehead against the porcelain tub.
Ken knocked at the door. “Chris?”
“Go away.”
“Open the door!”
“I’d sooner die.”
“Open the door.”
“I look awful when I throw up. My nose runs and my eyes get all red and watery.”
“I don’t care how you look, you idiot. Just open the damn door.”
Chris crawled over to the bowl and opened the lid. “I can’t,” she croaked. “I’m going to be sick!”
The wet towel felt good against her flushed face. She’d seen the last of dessert and the last of the spaghetti, and she felt a little better. Ken supported her back with his cast-clad arm. He handed her a fresh washcloth. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “This is so embarrassing.”
“It’s a little embarrassing for me, too. This is the first time anyone’s ever thrown up over the prospect of going to bed with me.”
Chris raised her eyes to his. “I’d like to make some witty retort, but I’m too sick.”
He pushed the hair from her sweat-slicked forehead. “Do you always run a fever when you get nervous?”
Chris tried to stand. She held onto the sink and swayed dizzily. “Oh boy.”
He scooped her into his arms, cursed the awkwardness of the cast, and sidled through the bathroom door with her. “I think we should get you into bed.”
She rested her head against his broad shoulder. “Jump back, Jack. I still have another hour.”
His voice rumbled against her as he carried her up the stairs. “I’ll add that to my list of your many attractive features. Attractive feature number thirty-two: can ward off lecherous men while nauseous.” He squeezed her a little and kissed the top of her head. “It will come in handy when you’re pregnant, again.”
“Pregnant again?” She thought her voice sounded small and very far away, and she was glad she was too sick to get jittery over his implication.
He flicked the light switch, bathing her bedroom in warm shades of pink and apricot. “Pregnant, again,” he repeated as he lay her down on the bed. “Don’t you want to have a larger family? I had the distinct impression you enjoyed motherhood.”
She looked at him through hazy, feverish eyes. “Are you going to make me pregnant?”
He sat at the edge of the bed and removed her shoes. “Only if you want me to,” he told her softly. “When we’re happily married, and you’re sure it’s the right thing.”
“Happily married. The very idea gives me a headache.” Chris touched her temple with her fingertips. “I feel awful.”
“My official diagnosis is flu.” He rummaged through her drawers and returned to the bed with a football jersey- style nightgown emblazoned with the Redskins emblem. “This looks like it would be comfortable to throw up in.” He unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing and eased it over her shoulders, groaning when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I’m making a monumental effort to keep my eyes above your neck,” he told her as he tugged the nightshirt over her head. “I hope you appreciate my gentlemanly effort.”
“I appreciate your gentlemanly effort.”
He reached for the snap on her jeans.
“I can do that myself!”
“Darn.”
“What about gentlemanly efforts?”
“In the last forty-eight hours I’ve used up my lifetime allotment of gentlemanly efforts. That was the last one I had left.” He gave a distraught glance at the shape of her breasts against the maroon-and-yellow jersey. “The least you could do is be less…voluptuous.”
Chris looked down at herself. “I can’t help it. I’m cold.” As if on cue, her teeth began to chatter and goose bumps erupted on her arms.
“You need to get into bed.” In one swift movement he had her jeans unsnapped and down to her knees. He pulled one cuff and then the other and expertly rolled her under the covers.
“You’re awfully good at removing ladies’ pants. You must have had tons of practice.”
“I practice every chance I get.”
Chris let herself sink back into the pillow. She closed her eyes and allowed Ken to tuck the feather quilt under her chin. It was awful being sick, but it was very nice to be on the receiving end of such loving care. If Edna had been home she would have trundled her off to bed with a stern lecture about “taking care of oneself.” And when Edna wasn’t looking Lucy would have brought her freshly made crayon drawings and smuggled her treats from the kitchen. A sudden wave of loneliness for the little girl washed over Chris. She felt her eyes fill with tears.
Ken perched on the edge of the bed, studying her with a concerned face. “Tears? What’s the matter?”
“I-I miss Lucy!” she sniffled. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Goodness, just look at me-I’m pathetic…lying here, crying for my daughter. I feel like such a boob.”
Ken smiled and stroked her hair from her forehead. “You’re not a boob. You’re just sick, and you miss your family. Why don’t we do something to take your mind off it.” He reached out and took a paperback book from the night table. “When my little sisters were sick I used to read to them. Would you like me to read to you?”
Chris looked at the book he held in his hand. It was a romance. An engraved leather bookmark innocently rested between the pages of a torrid love scene. Ordinarily, she would never have been able to put the book down at such a spot, but an especially exhausting weekend had caused her to drop off to sleep even as the hero’s hand crept up the heroine’s thigh.
Aching bones and throbbing head were not sufficient to extinguish the humor of the situation. Chris could barely control the impulse to laugh out loud at the idea of Ken reading her love scenes while she had the plague. It was
