Oh no. Something’s wrong. I whip my head from side to side. There’s no one around to help him.
I grab my purse and keys and scramble from my truck. He’s going to kill me when he finds out I’ve been following him, but what choice do I have? He might be having a stroke. Or maybe he’s preparing to turn into a poof of smoke and go home to his genie bottle.
I speed walk up and hear him groaning. “Are you okay?” I touch his arm.
He startles with a flinch but keeps his head down. “Ginnie, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I was just, yanno, driving by, and I saw you,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” He winces.
“Oh God, what’s wrong? Tell me what to do.”
“It’s just a headache.”
My heart sinks, remembering the story Vi told me about the dying man with the brain tumor. Fuck. No. Please no.
“Um… Okay. Let’s get you sitting.” I take his arm, but he jerks it away.
“I don’t need any help. Just go.”
“Stop being a big man baby, and do as you’re told.” I move so I can get the door open. He climbs inside his car, wincing like his head’s about to explode.
I set the seat back so he’s reclined and then go around to the passenger side. I open the door and lean into the car. It smells really nice inside, like cologne and him. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his delicious scent.
Stop smelling the genie, Ginnie! “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“No.” He grunts quietly. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. It’ll pass.”
I look around and spot a gas station a few blocks down. “Do you want ice? Water? A beer? Maybe some Goobers?” I mean, if you’re going to eat candy, why not pick something nasty so you’ll eat less of it, right?
“No. Just go,” he mumbles. “It’s only a migraine.”
If it’s just a migraine, it looks like a pretty bad one. I sigh, unsure of what to do. I can’t leave him like this.
I slide all the way inside the car and close the door, twisting my body around so I’m backwards in the seat. “Okay. My grandma used to get really bad migraines. I know this pressure technique—”
“I don’t need your help, Ginnie. I need you to leave.”
“What is it with men when they’re in pain? You’re all so stubborn.” I bow over him and use one hand to press the pressure points by his eyebrows. I place the other hand under his neck and press the base of the skull.
“How’s that feel?” I look down at his beautiful face, which is only a few inches beneath me. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help ogling. The lines of his full bottom lip, the thick auburn eyelashes fanning out across his cheek, and the defined cheekbones are so perfectly male and beautiful. He’s breathtaking. And my accelerating pulse is proof.
“It would feel better,” he says with his eyes still closed, “if you’d stop staring at me.”
“Oh, sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. Then I realize my breasts are pushed right on top of his chest. “Jesus. I’m squashing you.” My way of politely saying that my tits are in his airspace.
Embarrassed, I try to lift myself up a little.
“I was actually enjoying that part,” he says.
My face flushes. I was, too, come to think of it. His body is warm and firm, and our lips are just inches away. Butterflies explode in my stomach, and flutters erupt between my legs.
Ginnie! He’s in pain. I kneel back a little more and move my hand to the next position on his temples. Dammit. I still have one boob on him. I look up at the roof of his car and try not to think about the fact that there are only a few layers of fabric separating our nipples.
I bet his are like pink little Tic Tacs, just perfect for suck—
Ginnie! Stop.
I clear my throat, making little circles over his temples. “Is that any better?”
“Yes, actually.” His stark blue eyes pop open, and we’re nose to nose. So close.
His eyes shift to my lips, and my heart starts beating like a loud drum. I’m sure he can hear it.
“Why are you here, Ginnie?”
“I-I-I saw you and wanted to help.”
“Ah.” With a slight smirk, he closes his eyes again while I continue the massage. “And what did you see?”
I’m guessing he either knows I’m lying or he’s testing to see if I’m lying.
“Quiet. Just relax.” I shift my hands to another set of pressure points on the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones.
Dammit, I really want to pet his beard. It’s a dark red with speckles of gold. It looks soft and shiny, and I could imagine stroking it while he kisses me.
A long moment passes and then he says, “Thank you, Ginnie. It’s nice of you to help me.” His eyes remain closed, and I watch the tension leaving his face.