Chapter 17
“Where does it hurt?” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
He shifted away from her in his bed. “It’s a head cold. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m calling Marshall. You can’t work like this.
” The thought of Nic heading into work in the frigid mid-January drizzle made her want to handcuff the guy to his bed.
And not in the way Felicity sometimes wanted to handcuff him to the bed when she forgot that he had become her best friend and that trying to make their relationship into something else might ruin it completely, leading to her losing all the momentum in her life.
Also, he was the only one who could help her make heads or tails out of the shop’s account records from before she inherited it.
In any case, this sad, pathetic, feverish man would be staying in bed even if she had to tie him down and spank him on his sexy ass— Focus, Felicity.
“I know. I have a friend coming up from Texas to run the restaurant for a few days. I’m not a complete idiot. And Marshall doesn’t get back until next week.”
“I never said you were a complete idiot.”
“Your tone implied it.” He crossed his arms behind his head, broadening the chiseled pecs beneath his gray T-shirt. The man even looked sexy when he was rocking a 103-degree fever.
“You’re so stubborn. I was just saying—”
“Not the kind of stubborn that wants to create a public health problem in my restaurant.”
“Good.” She sighed, looking around. An old box carved with stars that she’d never seen before sat on the bookshelf. “This is pretty.”
“Hey, leave that alone, nosy.”
“Jesus, testy.”
“Thank you for checking on me. I’ll be okay. I’ve been making myself food and taking care of myself when I was sick since I was five years old, Felicity.” Nic stood and patted her on the shoulder as he moved past her to bring his dishes to the kitchen. “I don’t need you to baby me.”
“I wasn’t babying you.” A pang hit her chest as she followed. “Five years old? Where were your parents?”
“Working. Traveling. Not everyone has a village.” Shrugging, he sucked down a couple of aspirin. “Moved a lot. New nannies all the time. They were around to make sure I didn’t die though.”
“Military brat?”
“Essentially.”
The electric kettle clicked. Felicity gave him a light shove. “Go back and lie down. I’ll make that gross echinacea tea Derek makes Dylan drink when he’s sick and then—”
He put a hot hand over hers. “I’m fine. Go teach your class. Mr. Sheldon’s going to want to show you his progress on the new batch of orchids.”
Felicity huffed. “Okay, but give me your key so I can make sure you aren’t dead later. Courtney and Thea are still in New York, right?”
“Yeah. They are.” His bloodshot eyes measured her resolve. “Fine. Blue bowl by the back door.”
He went to lie back down, putting a wet washcloth over his forehead. He was the least whiny sick male-identifying person she had ever encountered. She’d seen enough man flu in the ER to be shocked at how little he seemed to demand sympathy. A 103-degree fever in an adult was misery.
“You’re sure you don’t—”
“Not a sick puppy.” He peeked out from under the washcloth. “Grown-ass man. Arms and legs still work.”
Well, that put her in her place for making assumptions.
“I’ll be back later to make sure you’re hydrating properly.”
When she got back after the orchid class, she decided to check on things at the restaurant and her shop before going back to see Nic. When she went to unlock her shop, she saw a tall, extremely attractive South Asian man messing with the pergola cover.
Felicity waved. “You must be Saj.”
“And you must be Felicity.” He grinned and shook her hand. “No mistaking that.”
“Oh no. What have you heard?”
“Redheaded firecracker with a green thumb and a”—he cleared his throat delicately—“a mouth filter that occasionally malfunctions.”
She scoffed. “Rude.”
“Inaccurate?”
“Irrelevant.”
Saj laughed. “How is Sir Nico doing?”
“Sir Nico?”
“He hates it, so of course it became his culinary school nickname.”
“I’ll save that in my back pocket, then.” She reached to untwist the stuck gear of the pergola. She’d need to WD-40 it again. “Bad fever. Ornery.”
“More ornery than usual? Rough. It’s like clockwork, man.” Saj rubbed his chin. “Nico always gets sick this time of year. We all help each other out when we need to, but I feel like it’s always around this time.”
“You’re still in Fort Worth, right?”
“Yep.” Saj rolled down the sides of the plastic covering they’d installed on the pergola last week and flicked on the propane heater close by. “He told me not to go over there, but if you see him, make sure to tell him happy birthday from me.”
Felicity nearly dropped her shears. “It’s Nic’s birthday?”
“Tomorrow. He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah. Figures.”
Felicity finished cleaning up the patio to get it back in order for the restaurant’s dinner rush.
When the patio was done, she sat down on the stoop behind the big bushes along the walkway, enjoying the unseasonably warm sunshine. January would be coming back tomorrow with a vengeance, but she could enjoy a few minutes here.
When Felicity checked on Nic after she ate dinner, he was snoring. She set out medications with various sticky notes indicating when they should be taken and got him a fresh electrolyte drink on ice before creeping back out of the house again.
Felicity woke up before her usual time. She had been an early riser since childhood, but it wasn’t even five o’clock yet.
It was pitch black. A thick frost was visible outside her bedroom window under the few alley lights that hit the fallow garden.
After fifteen minutes of trying to get back to sleep, she rolled out of bed.
After the glorious everything shower of all everything showers, she had made up her mind. She gathered what she needed from a few of the unpacked boxes cluttering her kitchen, grabbed Nic’s house key, and pulled on her heaviest coat.
When she entered his place, she wasn’t concerned about waking him—New Year’s Day had proved that Nic slept like a rock—and simply started doing the dishes. It was the first time she had ever seen this sink full of dirty dishes. Nic must be feeling horrible.
After prepping her ingredients, she opened the cabinets, trying to find that perfectly seasoned skillet Nic used for those banana pancakes he had made her on New Year’s Day.
She’d never made birthday French toast on stainless steel before, but it couldn’t be that different if she used enough butter.
In her defense, the fire was already out when Nic appeared in the kitchen doorway. She had cleared the room of smoke and was scrubbing down the stove to rid it of the ashes and foam from the fire extinguisher.
The first plate she had made wasn’t as bad as it could be, but she had spent so long arranging the candles and sprinkles that she forgot there was another pan of French toast on the stove.
“Happy birthday,” she said with false brightness, trying to stop her lip from trembling at the disaster she stood in the middle of. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. It’s not as bad as it looks. I already found a replacement skillet on eBay. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
He wasn’t looking at the disaster though. His wide, bleary-eyed gaze was on that first plate she had made. The candles. The confetti all over the tray. The large dollops of whipped cream covered in rainbow sprinkles she’d used to hide the most charred parts.
The cow wearing a tiara and tutu birthday card.
The tiny fiddle-leaf sapling she had been nurturing ever since she found out he loved fiddle-leaf fig trees back around Thanksgiving.
His gaze softened before he smiled. The smile was interrupted by a coughing fit so violent that she led him back up the stairs to bed.
“Stay.” She pointed at him, then at her eyes and back.
He nodded.
She brought him the tray and a large tea. Several medications and a refilled water bottle. She put a cow-print birthday hat on his head.
“Smile.”
His smile was more like a wolf baring its teeth, but she loved it anyway. She removed the hat and replaced it with a cool, damp towel.
She sat next to him in bed while he ate every single bite of French toast.
When all that was left on his plate was the tan sheen of syrup and a few streaks of melty cream, Felicity set it on the nightstand.
She sat in silence with him for a few minutes until he sank down under the covers, drawing them up to his chin. “I really don’t feel great. You shouldn’t be here. I’ll get you sick.”
Felicity pressed her hand to his head.
God, he’s burning up again.
“I used to be an ER nurse. Your common little cold doesn’t scare me. ER nurses are only afraid of drug-resistant super lice and bedbugs.”
He snorted, which led to another round of coughing and shivering. “N-noted.”
She frowned. “Did you take the medicines I left for you before?”
“Yesterday? I think I took them then,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Only once?”
He nodded in a snuffly way.
“I wrote sticky notes. Every four to six hours for the one and every six to eight for the other.” She held up the bottles, which was useless because his eyes had shut.
“Too many numbers and words.”
She counted out pills in her palm. “Up.”
“No, thank you. I’m good.” His voice was so deliriously adorable she could barely stand it.
“Just sit up for a second so I can give you these damn pills.”
“Fine.” A little of yesterday’s petulance was back in his voice, which Felicity took as a good sign. She handed him a Gatorade and glared at him until he’d drained at least a third of it. He lay down again.
“My head hurts.”
She sat beside him, combing her fingers through his sweaty hair and stroking the furrowed areas of his forehead until all of his tense muscles softened.
She hadn’t noticed before, but there was a pile of books on his bedside table. The pile was almost exactly like the one Felicity had near her door.
The only difference was that so many of the books had cracked spines.