Chapter 24
Rowan's POV
Rachel looked up. "Mr. Reynolds—"
"She should have seen someone hours ago," I said curtly. "Let's get this submission done, then I'm checking on her."
Rachel nodded and pulled up the documents.
We went through the final review quickly—signature pages, exhibits, disclosure schedules. Everything was in order, as I'd expected. Lena didn't do sloppy work, even when she was running on fumes.
The second we finished, I was out the door.
---
I knocked on Room 1428.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder. "Lena."
Still nothing.
I called down to the front desk. "This is Rowan Reynolds. I need access to Room 1428. It's urgent."
Three minutes later, a staff member appeared with a keycard. I pushed the door open.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Lena's blazer lay draped over a chair, her laptop closed on the desk.
She was on the bed, curled on her side. Still wearing her blouse and slacks. Even her shoes.
I crossed the room quickly and knelt beside the bed.
"Lena," I said quietly.
She didn't stir.
I reached out and pressed the back of my hand to her forehead.
Burning.
Her skin was flushed, hair damp with sweat. Her breathing was shallow and rapid.
The hotel doctor arrived ten minutes later, a middle-aged woman with a brisk, efficient manner.
She examined Lena while I stood by the window, arms crossed.
"Fever of 102," the doctor said, tucking her thermometer away. "Likely a combination of factors—caught a chill last night, plus exhaustion and change of environment. Has she been under a lot of stress?"
"Yes."
"That doesn't help." She pulled out a prescription pad. "I'm writing scripts for a fever reducer and an anti-inflammatory. She needs fluids and rest. No work for at least two days."
"Understood."
"If the fever doesn't break by tomorrow morning, call me back."
I nodded.
The doctor packed up her bag. "Make sure she takes the medication with food. And keep an eye on her tonight."
"I will."
After she left, I texted Jack: Clear my schedule for the rest of today. Reschedule the evening call to tomorrow morning.
Then I turned back to the bed.
Lena was still unconscious, face pressed into the pillow. I sat on the edge of the mattress and carefully removed her shoes, setting them aside.
In the bathroom, I found a washcloth and ran it under cold water. Back at the bedside, I gently pressed it to her forehead.
She stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering.
"Rowan?" Her voice was barely audible.
"The doctor just left," I said. "You need to take medication."
She tried to sit up, but her arms trembled with the effort.
I slid an arm behind her shoulders and eased her upright, propping pillows behind her back.
"Here." I handed her the pills and a glass of water.
She took them obediently, swallowing with difficulty. When she finished, she sagged back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
"Sleep," I said.
She was already drifting off.
---
An hour later, the medication kicked in.
Lena's fever began to break, but it brought a sheen of sweat with it. She twisted restlessly, kicking off the blanket.
"Hot," she mumbled, eyes still closed.
Her hands fumbled at the buttons of her blouse.
I caught her wrists gently. "Don't."
But she was persistent, fingers working the first two buttons loose before I could stop her again.
The fabric fell open, revealing the hollow of her throat and the edge of her collarbone. A thin white camisole beneath, damp with perspiration.
I looked away, jaw tight.
She's sick. Get a grip.
But it didn't help. The sight of her—flushed, disheveled, vulnerable—stirred something I'd been trying to suppress for weeks.
I stood abruptly and went to the closet, pulling out a clean cotton nightshirt.
When I came back, Lena was still half-asleep, the damp blouse clinging to her skin.
"You need to change," I said, more to myself than to her.
She didn't respond.
I set the nightshirt on the bed and hesitated. Then I reached for the remaining buttons of her blouse.
My fingers brushed her collarbone. Her skin was hot and damp.
Focus.
I slipped the blouse off her shoulders, trying not to look. Trying and failing.
She was thin—thinner than I'd realized. Ribs visible beneath pale skin. The camisole clung to her, outlining every curve.
I pulled the nightshirt over her head as quickly as I could and guided her arms through the sleeves.
She leaned against me, boneless and trusting in a way she'd never been while conscious.
It made something twist in my chest.
When she was dressed, I eased her back onto the pillows and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
She sighed softly and curled onto her side, face relaxing.
I sat there for a moment, just watching her breathe.
Then I stood and moved to the desk.
---
The evening passed in silence.
I answered emails. Reviewed contracts. Approved budget allocations for the Hartwell investigation.
Every twenty minutes, I checked on Lena.
At seven, I tested her temperature again—99.8. Still elevated, but better.
I poured a glass of water and left it on the nightstand, within reach if she woke.
At eight, Jack texted: Nora's asking where you are.
I ignored it.
At nine, I closed my laptop and looked out the window.
Oakridge was quiet at night. Rain had started again, soft and steady against the glass.
Behind me, Lena's breathing was deep and even.
I leaned back in the chair and let my eyes close for just a moment.
Just a moment.