Beautiful Bastard

could hear coming from inside. There wasn’t any.
    I continued to lie there, clutching his pillow as my eyes began to grow heavier. I wanted to wait for him. I needed the reassurance of his warm body next to mine and the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me. I imagined him holding me, whispering that this was all real and nothing would change in the morning. Before long, my eyes drifted closed and I slipped back into an uneasy sleep.
    Sometime later, I awoke again, still alone. Rolling over quickly, I looked at the time: 5:14 a.m.
    What ? Fumbling in the darkness, I put on the first thing I found and walked to the bathroom.
    “Bennett?” No answer. I knocked softly. “Bennett?” A groan and a soft shuffle sounded from the other side of the door.
    “Just go away.” His voice was hoarse and echoed off the bathroom walls.
    “Bennett, are you okay?”
    “I’m not feeling well. I’ll be fine, go back to bed.”
    “Is there anything I can get you?” I asked.
    “I’m fine. Just please, go back to bed.”
    “But—”
    “Chloe,” he groaned, obviously annoyed.
    I turned, unsure of what to do, battling an odd, unsettling feeling. Did he even get sick? In just under a year, I’d never seen him with so much as a stuffy nose. It was obvious he didn’t want me hovering outside the door, but there was no way I could go back to sleep either.
    Walking back to the bed, I straightened the blankets and headed toward the suite’s living room. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and sat on the couch.
    If he was sick, I mean really sick, there was no way he could make the Gugliotti meeting in a couple of hours.
    I switched on the TV and began flipping through the channels. Infomercial. Bad movie. Nick at Nite. Ahh, Wayne’s World. Sitting back into the couch, I tucked my legs under me and prepared to wait. Halfway through the movie, I heard the water running in the bathroom. I sat up and listened as it was the first sound I’d heard in over an hour. The bathroom door opened and I flew off the couch, grabbing another bottle of water before entering the bedroom.
    “Are you feeling better?” I asked.
    “Yes. I think I just need to sleep now.” He stumbled into bed, burying his face in the pillow with a groan.
    “What . . . what was wrong?” I placed the bottle of water down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed next to him.
    “It was just my stomach. I think it was the sushi at dinner.” His eyes were closed and even in the dim light coming from the other room, I could see that he looked like hell. He turned away from me slightly but I ignored it, placing one hand in his hair and the other on his cheek. His hair was damp and his face was pale and clammy, and despite his initial reaction, he leaned into my touch.
    “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked, brushing a few damp strands away from his forehead.
    “Because the last thing I needed was you in there watching me throw up,” he replied almost grumpily, and I rolled my eyes, offering him the bottle of water.
    “I could have done something. You don’t have to be such a man.”
    “Don’t be such a woman. What could you have done? Food poisoning is a pretty lonely business.”
    “So what should I tell Gugliotti?”
    He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit. What time is it?”
    I glanced at the clock. “Just after seven.”
    “What time is the meeting?”
    “Eight.”
    He started to get up but was easy enough to shove back down into the bed. “No way in hell are you going to that meeting like this! When was the last time you threw up?”
    He groaned. “A few minutes ago.”
    “Exactly. Gross. I’ll call him to reschedule.”
    He gripped my arm before I could walk over to the desk and grab my phone. “Chloe. You do it.”
    My eyebrows inched to my hairline. “Do what?”
    He waited.
    “The meeting?”
    He nodded.
    “Without you?”
    He nodded again.
    “You’re sending me to a meeting alone?”
    “Miss Mills, you’re as sharp as a spoon.”
    “Fuck off,” I said, laughing and pushing him gently. “And I’m not doing it without you.”
    “Why not? I bet you know the account we’re offering as well as I do. Besides, if we reschedule he’s just going to take a lavish trip to Chicago and send us the bill. Please, Chloe.”
    I stared down at him, waiting for him to break into a teasing grin or take it back. But he didn’t. And the truth was, I did know the account, and I did know the terms. I