Leaving Normal by Stef Holm (whitelam books txt) 📗

Disconnecting the call, Natalie laid the phone down and buried her face in her arms on the tabletop, willing the sickness in her stomach to go away. The thought of soup had no appeal to her now.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting in the uncomfortable position; she might have even dozed off.

But the doorbell rang and gave her a start. Lifting her head, she gazed at the leaded-glass panel at the top of her front door.

A large silhouette of a man dressed in dark blue stood on the other side.

Rising on unsteady feet, Natalie went toward the door and could tell immediately who it was through the glass.

Tony Cruz.

Fighting off a renewed bout of nausea, she questioned opening the door. She felt like death warmed over, and was certain she looked like it. But she'd come this far, and if she could make out his blurred image, he could see that she was home and a hand's length away from the doorknob.

Sweeping the door inward, she willed the pitch in her stomach to go away. No luck.

"Uh, hi, Tony…it's not a good time. I don't—"

That's all she managed to get out when she turned around and ran for the downstairs bathroom to be sick.

She never heard him come in behind her. He hadn't been on her mind as she was throwing up that damn pill—or what was left of it. When she looked up from the sink moments later while running cold water over her face, he was there in the doorway.

"I came over to see how your surgery went. Are you all right?" His brown eyes were assessing and filled with a questioning warmth.

She talked to his reflection. "I think I am now…sort of.". Daring a glance at her face, she grimaced. Dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, and her face had a paleness to it. Her black pupils appeared dilated and her lips were dry.

"No cancer," she murmured, easing her way to standing.

Before she knew it, he was behind her, his solid chest pressed into her back to support her. "I'm glad to hear that. So what's wrong?"

"I took a Vicodan on an empty stomach."

"That'll make you sick."

"Will it?" She gave him a half smile, unable to glance at their paired reflection in the mirror.

He was so handsome, so strong and big. She knew she was frail right now, weak and feeling hideously wretched. She wanted to lie down, curl up on her side and be tucked under blankets. Intuitively, he must have sensed this because the next thing she knew, he swept her into his arms and was walking her through the house.

"Where's your bedroom? Upstairs?"

She nodded into the crook of his neck, thinking his skin smelled like fireplace smoke from outside, like wintertime; sun and snow mixed in one. His body was strong and hard, warm and comforting. She hooked her arm over his broad shoulder, rested her cheek against the heaviness of his Boise Fire Dept. sweatshirt as he climbed the stairs. Not for a second did she think he'd drop her. She felt safe and protected, and reveled in the feeling for as long as it would last.

Once at the landing, he paused.

"Left," she said, directing him to the master.

Inside the bedroom, he laid her down on the unmade bed. Thoughts of curling up on her side were forgotten when she remembered the pain of the incisions and knew she had to lie on her back.

She tried to plump up the pillows behind her head, but he moved her hand out of the way and did it for her. When the pillows fit snugly at her back and neck, she settled into them. He took her slippers off, sliding them from her bare feet, gave a lingering gaze to her reddish-pink toenail polish. Then he brought the covers up to her chin, tucked them in at her sides and sat on the edge of the bed.

His weight dipped the mattress in a way that hadn't been felt since Greg moved out of the house and out of this bedroom. Come to think of it, Tony was the first man who'd ever sat on her bed. She and Michael had never spent the night at each other's homes; they went out of town when they wanted to be together.

Lying down with her eyes on Tony, she thought it remarkably strange that he was here in her small space of the world.

"Thank you," she said in a soft tone.

"You need to eat something."

"I have soup on the stove."

"I'll get you a bowl."

"You don't have to," she said weakly.

"I know that."

He was gone, leaving her alone long enough to close her eyes, to remember the day she'd read the letter from St. Luke's. She'd told Tony what the results were, had been numb with shock, and the words had just come out. It had felt natural confiding in him. For reasons that were still undefined to her, she'd kept him updated about the ultrasound and then her surgery scheduled for this morning.

When he returned with a cup of soup and some salt crackers, she tried to quell the affection for him stirring . in her heart.

He cared.

He cared enough to come over and check on her. Cared about her welfare to bring up the soup…

Why did he have to be so nice? So wonderful? Why this man? Why not someone else who didn't offer complications?

Tony held the cup in front of her. "Can you hold on to it?"

"Yes."

"Where's a chair?" His face was chiseled, a day's growth of beard dusting his jaw and cheeks. The dark five-o'clock shadow made him look rugged, even daring and definitely more real-life man. She always saw him as bigger than most men, larger in body and proportion, and right here, right now, he was even larger in real life.

"Cassie's room, straight and to the right."

He was back with a chair before the first spoonful of soup had cooled enough for her to eat it. Propping the chair's back in