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Fifteen

Madison could stay this way forever. Shrouded in a fluffy comforter, her head on a soft pillow, the gentle snores of Hershey on his dog bed in the corner of the room. She was so tired, she felt drunk. Even with her eyes closed, her head was spinning. But she was aware of her surroundings, including Troy’s hard body lying next to her, his warmth reaching out and closing the distance between them.

Her stomach clenched and heaved.

She jumped from bed and made it to the toilet just in time to puke her guts out. She sat on the ceramic floor afterward, getting as close as she could to the porcelain throne. She wasn’t confident she didn’t have any more offerings on board.

A soft knock on the door, followed by, “You all right, Bulldog?”

“Yeah, I’m—” She put her head over the bowl and purged again.

The door cracked open. She waved him away, but his steps came closer, and he put a hand on her shoulder. His touch soothed her, but she didn’t want him seeing her this way. Nothing sexy about vomit.

“You can—” She was going to say “go,” but she gagged. Chunks were lodged in her nose. She snatched a few squares of toilet paper and blew, using all her willpower not to spew again. She was really regretting the late night/early morning burger she’d picked up at a drive-thru on the way home.

“I’ll be out there if you need me.”

Yep, tried to warn ya!

The door clicked shut. Thankfully, with Troy on the other side.

She popped the TP in the toilet and flushed. She put her mind elsewhere, far from the smell lodged in her sinuses and the sour taste coating her tongue. Her resolve went to work. She had to pick herself up off the floor and get to the station to meet up with Terry for the autopsy.

She eventually convinced herself to move, her stomach calmer for the time being. She just hoped that feeling would last. After splashing cold water on her face, she met her eyes in the mirror. She really looked like shit. This was the first time the nausea had caused her to hurl. What was going on with her? She’d guess pregnant if she were talking about anyone else, but she and Troy took precautions. It had to just be some flu going around.

She made herself brush her teeth, coaxing herself that she’d feel far more human getting it done and over with it as fast as possible. She was in the middle of the process when her cell phone rang back in the bedroom. She poked her head out the door and mumbled around a mouthful of paste to Troy, “Can you get—”

“Hello,” Troy said, and the ringing stopped.

She spat out the paste, rinsed, and spat some more, patted her face with the hand towel. She stepped into the hall and almost tripped on Hershey, who was lying right outside the bathroom door. “Good dog,” she told him and hurried to the bedroom.

Troy was standing next to her nightstand, her phone to his ear, appearing to be having himself a good ol’ chitchat. “She’s not feeling well this morning.”

She went to him and held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Phone.”

“Here she is.” Troy complied with her wishes.

“Hello,” she said.

“You’re not feeling well?” It was Terry.

She glared at Troy. “I’m fine.”

Troy shook his head. He didn’t smile easily, but she would describe the slight curl to his lips as nothing less than an expression of amusement. He was finding her ridiculous for wanting to deny how she felt, but Troy didn’t know Terry as well as she did.

“Are you still coming in?” Terry asked.

“Yeah, just let me—” She caught the time on the alarm clock. 7:30 AM. “Shit—”

“Really?”

“Sorry.” She tried to censor her speech around him. “I’ll meet you at the morgue.”

“Okay.” Terry didn’t sound like he quite believed her.

She tossed her phone on the bed and went for her dresser. “You never should have told him I’m not feeling well,” she said to Troy, who was hanging in the doorway. She looked over at him. “You hear…me?” The question broke up because she finally noticed him. How she hadn’t before now—well, she must have been ill. He was standing there in boxers, chest bare, with his six-pack abs and muscular shoulders. Completing the picture was his tousled blond hair that begged for her fingertips.

He narrowed his eyes seductively and came over to her. “And why couldn’t I tell him that? He’s your partner.”

“It’s just not something we talk about.”

“You’re a strange one sometimes, you know.”

“Thanks,” she said drily.

“Don’t take that the wrong way. I love that you’re unique and you have these quirks, but—” he cupped her elbows in his big, strong, manly hands “—why can’t he know you’re not feeling well?”

“Why?” she pushed out. “Because he won’t let it go. I had that cold a few weeks ago—you know, at the time of Cynthia’s wedding.”

“Sure…”

“Yeah, well, Terry has a way of making me feel worse.”

“How?” His brow knotted.

“He just…” She rolled her hands not even sure how to put it into words. “He gets in my head. Psychosomatic.”

“I see.”

“Don’t say it like you think I’m crazy.”

“Well.” He smiled and didn’t hide the fact.

She nudged him in the shoulder but made the mistake of letting her palm lay flat against his bare flesh. She put her mouth on his and was ready to risk getting locked out of the autopsy when he pulled back.

“I thought you had to go,” he said.

“What? No, I never said—”

He tucked some of her hair around her ear. “You told Terry you’d meet him at the morgue.”

She let out a long sigh, also remembering last night when she’d hoped to greet a new day with a grand epiphany. That hadn’t happened, and apparently sex wasn’t happening either.