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anything. He’s away from home, and it sucks to be ill.”
    “It’s okay, Pix. I get it. And my opinion doesn’t even matter. This is about you.”
Gah
. His eyes were full of that understanding thing he did, and guilt rushed through her.
    “Of course your opinion matters. But there’s nothing for you to have an opinion about right now.”
And there wasn’t
. She’d wanted to know what it would feel like to be kissed by him, and now she knew it was every bit as earth-shatteringly intense as she thought it would be. That had to be enough, because she wasn’t ready to go further.
    “Whatever you say, Pix. Now talk me through what’s up next before you go.”
    Forty minutes later, Pixie stood in the beautiful billowy-curtained lobby of the Delano armed with Dred’s cell phone number, courtesy of Trent, and several plastic bags. The hotel epitomized her love-hate relationship with Miami. Three stunning women in matching shades of ivory tottered through the lobby in impossibly tall heels. Pixie looked down at her purple tartan kilt, black converse, and the black vest she’d sewed herself. She loved Miami. She just didn’t fit in.
    No time for self-pity.
    Pixie pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Dred’s number.
    * * *
    She really doesn’t need to see me like this.
    Dred shuffled to the hotel door, and used the security bar to prop it open. His number-one fan could burst in à la Kathy Bates in
Misery
, and he wouldn’t give a fuck. Because broken ankles couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did.
    Sweat covered his body, and he hadn’t showered since before the concert the previous evening. He crawled back into the damp sheets.
    The rest of the guys had offered to stay with him. Family and all that. But really, all he needed was sleep. And more sleep. And perhaps a little more sleep. So he’d told them to stick with their plans in the Everglades with Cujo’s brother, Connor.
    There was a gentle knock at the door. “Hello.” Pixie entered the room, arms loaded with bags.
    “Hey, Pix.” It felt like the two sides of this throat stuck together when he talked, and he winced in pain.
    “Oh my. You look awful.” She placed the bags on the dresser and hurried over to him. Once again, she pressed her hand against his forehead, her fingers cool against his torturously hot skin.
    He placed his hand over hers. “Cold,” he gasped.
    “We need to get you cooled down. Do you think you could manage a cool shower?”
    The bathroom felt like a million miles away, but he pulled himself to the edge of the bed. He stunk, and his long hair was matted to his skin. Pixie stepped around the bed and helped him up. It was depressing to admit he actually needed her help, and he tried to avoid placing his full weight on her shoulder. She was so freaking tiny, he could compress her spine.
    “Want to join me, Pix?” he said with more confidence than he actually felt.
    “I think you’re being a bit optimistic about your stamina,” she laughed. “You get cleaned up, and I’ll get this bed changed. I saw housekeeping as I came in.”
    Dred showered in freakishly cold water then towelled off. He brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. Exhausted by the whole undertaking, he rested both hands on the edge of the sink.
    There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”
    Am I decent?
Great question.
He wrapped the towel securely around his waist.
    “Yeah,” he answered. The door opened.
    “Gargle with this.” Pixie thrust a red Solo cup at him. “Saltwater. It’ll do your throat good.”
    He did as she instructed. When he returned to the bedroom, his bed was made up and turned down. The idea of cool, clean bedding was heaven and he wanted to collapse into it, but the delicious smell coming from the food on the desk was too tempting.
    “Come, sit. It’s chicken noodle soup. And the Styrofoam cup is freshly squeezed orange and spinach. Don’t look at it, just drink it.” Pixie perched