Lori Foster - Worth The Wait

He wanted to immediately wake her and suggest she go home, but instead he slipped back out of the office without making a sound. Far as he could tell, the restaurant was Violet’s number one priority. If he woke her before everything was done, she’d probably start pitching in when clearly she needed some rest.

The employees knew their jobs, but still welcomed his reminders of how Violet preferred things done. He, himself, did her usual duties, running the end-of-day reports, balancing the books and closing out the cash drawer. He locked the remaining money in the safe and left the register open.

After Colt and Kristy left, Hogan did a final sweep of the building, set the security alarms on all but the back door and finally went to Violet’s office. Before he could open the door, he heard a rasping cough. Again, he opened it and stepped in.

Violet, looking messier than he’d ever seen her, leaned over the papers again scattered across her desk.

“Violet?”

Slowly she turned her face toward him.

Her bloodshot eyes surprised him. Sick. He stepped in farther. “Hey, you okay?”

She looked from him to the paperwork. “I don’t know.” More coughs racked her.

Hogan strode forward and put a hand to her forehead. “Shit. You’re burning up.”

“What time is it?”

“A few minutes after midnight.”

“Oh.” She pushed back from the desk but didn’t make it far. “The restaurant,” she gasped in between strained breaths.

“I took care of it.” Holding her elbow, he helped to support her as she stood. His most pressing thought was getting her home and in bed. No, not the way he’d like, but definitely the way she needed. “Where are your car keys?”

Unsteady on her feet, she frowned. “What do you mean, you took care of it?”

“You have good employees—you know that. They’re aware of the routine. Colt pitched in, too. Everything is done.”

“But...”

“I double-checked. I’m not incompetent, so trust me.”

Her frown darkened.

“You can thank me, Violet.”

She tried to look stern, coughed again and gave up. “Thank you.” Still she kept one hand on the desk. “I’m just so blasted tired.”

“I know.” He eased her into his side, his arm around her. “Come on. Let me drive you home.”

Giving him a lost look, she said, “I can’t be sick. I don’t have time to be sick. Beth’s gone for at least four weeks. I have to—”

“You don’t have to do anything, not right now.” Hogan remembered once when Meg, his wife, had gotten pneumonia. Her cough had sounded the same and she, too, had been tired and run a fever. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be here for the weekend. I can handle things.”

“It’s not your restaurant!” Soon as she rasped the words, she began to cough.

Worried, Hogan set her against the desk. “Stay put.” Then he found her purse and, without a qualm, dug through it for her keys.

He found them. He also found two condoms. His gaze flashed to hers, but her eyes were closed and she looked asleep on her feet, her body utterly boneless as she drew in shallow, strained breaths.

“Come on.” With an arm around her, her purse and keys held in his free hand, he led her out the back way to the employee lot, securing the door behind her. Her yellow Mustang shone bright beneath security lights.

His bike would be okay. Or at least, it better be.

* * *

Violet tried to get herself together but it wasn’t easy. She honestly felt like she could close her eyes and nod right off. “The trash—”

“Was taken out.” He opened the passenger door and helped her in.

“If you left on even one fan—”

“It would set off the security sensors. I know. They’re all off.” He fastened her seat belt around her and closed her door.

As soon as he slid behind the wheel, she said, “But the end-of-day reports—”

“Are done.” He started her car. “Try not to worry, okay?”

Easier said than done.

Because the town was so small, Hogan seemed to know where she lived even though she’d never had him over. She hadn’t dared.

Hogan in her home? Nope. Not a good idea.

Even feeling miserable, her head pounding and her chest aching, she was acutely aware of him beside her in the enclosed car, and the way he kept glancing at her. He tempted her, always had, from the first day she’d met him.

He was also a major runaround. Supposedly a reformed runaround, but she didn’t trust in that. Things had happened with his late wife, things that had made him bitter and unpredictable.

Yet no less appealing.

She wasn’t one to pry; otherwise she might have gotten all the details from Honor, his sister-in-law, already. She figured if he ever wanted to, Hogan himself would tell her. Not that there was any reason, since she would not get involved with him.

Hogan was fun to tease, like watching the flames in a bonfire. You watched, you enjoyed, but you did not jump in the fire.

More coughs racked her and she wheezed for breath.

“You know what?” he said, veering away from the direction of her house. “I’m taking you to the ER instead. You need some meds. Tonight.”

She wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t his decision, but she wasn’t stupid. Tomorrow was Saturday, so finding a doctor would be no easier then. She couldn’t even imagine how much worse she might feel in the morning, given that she felt more wretched by the minute.

“Yes,” she said, her head back and her eyes closed—not that he’d waited for her agreement. “I think you’re right.”

Three hours later, after a long visit in a crowded waiting room where he’d held her against him, a few tests that had shown she had pneumonia and a script for antibiotics that he’d filled for her at an all-night pharmacy, Violet finally slogged through her house for the bedroom.

Her throat was so dry; she desperately needed a bottle of water. And she’d dearly love to lose her bra.

She managed only to drop facedown into her bed, on top of the comforter. She missed the pillow.

It didn’t matter. For someone who never got sick, she’d gone all out. Pneumonia. They should call it “debilitating weakness” instead.

Hogan stood over her. She pulled together enough energy to say, “Thank you. Lock the door on your way out.”

Instead she felt him tugging off her sneakers.

Her eyes popped open; she was sick, not dead. “What are you doing?”

“I won’t steal your shorts, so relax.” After removing her shoes, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Holding her with one arm—something she couldn’t help but notice—he turned down her bed and tucked her in.

When he walked away, she felt like crying.

She, who cried about as often as she got sick, which was never.

But instead of leaving, he came right back with the coveted bottle of water. “Here, let me help you.” Sitting on the side of the bed, he slipped an arm beneath her and levered her up, put the bottle in her hand and supported her while she drank. “Better?”

“You know,” she whispered, “since we’re doing this, I may as well go all in.”

“All in?”

She was in a bed—her bed—with Hogan Guthrie right next to her. Not ideal circumstances, but still... “Help me out of my shorts.”

Across her back, his arm tightened until she thought she could make out every lean, hard muscle.

Maybe it was lack of oxygen caused by the pneumonia, but she heard herself say, “Unhook my bra, too—I’ll take care of the rest. And thanks in advance.”

“Um...”

“It’s uncomfortable. I usually sleep naked, so—”

Letting her recline again, he quickly stood, then stared down at her with a gaze so intent she would have blushed if she’d had the energy.