When he awakened early the next morning, he discovered his bedroom had ceased to behave like a carousel and was once again stationary. A good sign. But his mouth tasted as if a herd of cattle had been driven through it. He needed a toothbrush and toothpaste. Bad! He shoved aside the sheet, slid his legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up. So far, so good. He let his feet touch the floor, then took a deep breath before standing. The room lurched a bit, then righted itself. He took another deep breath. He was rarely sick—maybe a cold every year or two, if that—and he resented the weakness he felt after this bout with the flu. He hated knowing Shayla had seen him like this. Not the best way to impress a woman. But he would be eternally grateful for the help she’d rendered. At least, he thought she’d rendered it. Things were a bit fuzzy in his head yet. Maybe he’d imagined her cool hand on his hot forehead. Maybe he’d dreamed her gentle smile as she leaned over him. On shaky legs, he made his way to the bathroom.
