Billionaires Dollar Series

In the other room, Karli offers the author a ride home, her voice carrying across to us. Skye sighs, looking like she’s about to keel over.

“She’s leaving?” I murmur. “You’re to clean up and close shop alone?”

“She has an early parent-teacher conference tomorrow. I offered to handle the late night.”

“Does she know you’re sick?”

“I have the sniffles, and no.”

I cross my arms across my chest. “You can’t do everything alone, Skye.”

“Watch me.”

“If you’re pulling these numbers, you two should hire-”

“Stop arguing,” she says, and with more force than I thought she could muster, she pushes me into the adjacent storage room. “And be quiet.”

In the darkness, I’m standing next to boxes and boxes of books. How much inventory do they have? I lean against a few of the boxes and openly eavesdrop on the conversation on the other side of the curtain.

“Oh, there you are, Skye! We’re heading out. Thanks for tonight,” Karli says. They exchange pleasantries and goodbyes, a door finally closing. The bookstore is quiet once again.

“I’m coming out now,” I declare loudly.

There’s no response. When I emerge, Skye is holding on to the counter with both hands, taking a few deep breaths.

I’m at her side in seconds. “Skye?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Come on. Have a seat.” I wrap an arm around her waist and help her over to a chair in the reading room. The fact that she doesn’t protest tells me everything I need to know about just how sick she is.

“Let me take you to a doctor.”

“No, no. I just need to finish here and then lie down for a bit.”

“You’re burning up.”

She sinks into the chair, boneless. “Mmm. Maybe.”

“How could you not tell Karli this?”

“I needed the event to go well. It had to be a success,” she murmurs, looking around the room with glazed eyes. “There’s so much to clear out.”

“Tell me what to do.”

She gives a weak laugh. “You’ll help?”

“All right. Well, we need to stack the fold-up chairs. The plates need to be cleared away. I can… I should close the register. I can do that.”

We work in silence. It doesn’t take me long to clear away the chairs and the trash-the bookstore isn’t that big. From the corner, Skye works with painfully slow movements at the register.

And she’d said that she had a cold. The woman has no instinct for self-preservation. “All right,” I say finally, “the place looks immaculate. Can we go now? You need to rest.”

She sways at my side, but doesn’t respond.

“Yes,” she mumbles. “That’s me.”

I touch her forehead again and her eyes drift closed in response. “You’re cool. Your hand is, I mean. It feels good.”

“Okay, we’re getting you home right away.” I help her to the front door. “Do you have your purse?”

She nods, pointing to the bag tucked under her arm. “All set.” She’s a warm weight against me, not protesting my supporting arm.

“Where’s your car?”

She shakes her head but stops abruptly, frowning in pain. “Ow. My head.”

“Do you often get this sick?”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“No. The flu. My nephew had it last week. Must have caught it.”

“Your car?”

“I walked to work today,” she says, and I want to curse. Of course she did, and had planned to walk home after she closed up shop, late and in the dark. It’s almost ten.

She takes a step away from me and sways, but stays on her feet, fumbling with the clasp of her bag. “I’ll call a taxi,” she mumbles. “I can get home. Thanks.”

“No way am I putting you in a taxi right now. Tell me your address, and we’ll get you home, and tomorrow you’re going to a hospital.” I wrap my left arm around her and use my right to dial Charles.

“We’re ready.”

“I’ll be there in five,” he says, hanging up.

Skye shivers beside me, despite the late summer warmth and her high temperature. “Who did you call?”

“My driver. Will you tell me your address?”

Skye looks up at me, but her eyes aren’t narrowed in suspicion or her usual challenge. There’s gratefulness there instead and something else, a bone-deep tiredness. “14 Fairfield Point. It’s close.”

By the time we get into the backseat of my car, Skye has her eyes closed and her head back against the seat.

Charles shoots me a look in the mirror. “Everything OK, sir?”

“She’s sick. I’ll give Dr. Johnson a call. Hopefully you can pick him up after you drop us off.”

Skye doesn’t protest-she’s no longer listening to our conversation. It’s not a good sign for someone who always wants to have the last word.

I call Dr. Johnson and keep an eye on her the entire car ride. It’s late, but he says yes. He always does for me or my family.