10. Sienna
SIENNA
Despite being barely able to hold my own body weight, I can’t stop myself from spinning around and tracking every single one of Calvin’s steps as he walks into my apartment as if he owns it.
My mouth is agape, and my eyes are impossibly wide.
What the fuck is happening right now?
When I woke again, shivering some time before 4 a.m., I honestly thought the whole exchange was a dream. But as the seconds went on and the image of me standing before him at his front door only got clearer, I knew it wasn’t.
I wished it was. But it wasn’t.
Calvin Keller is my noisy upstairs neighbor.
Of course he is.
If I weren’t so sick and useless, I’d laugh.
As if the temptation wasn’t enough when I got the chance to hang out with him in a group. Now, not only does he live in the same building, but he’s literally a floor away, and…and now, he’s in my apartment.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I rasp. If I weren’t so sick, it might sound fierce, but right now, I just sound pathetic.
Probably the exact reason he’s here.
I was a mess last night. There’s no arguing that fact.
He’s here out of pity.
“I wanted to check on you before I headed out. And”—he holds the bag up again—“I brought you breakfast. Oh shit,” he gasps when I wobble on my feet and have to reach out to steady myself against the wall. Abandoning the bag on the kitchen island, he races over and pulls me into his side.
The warmth of his body pressing against me makes me want to sob in relief. When I was sick when I was little, Mom would always have the day off, and we’d spend it snuggling on the couch. His embrace takes me back and makes me wish she was here now.
But sadly, I’d an adult, and apparently, I have to look after myself.
Ugh. Calvin leads me to my couch before giving me little choice but to settle onto it. He steps back, and I can’t help the violent shiver that rips through me.
Spotting a blanket thrown over the back cushions, he pulls it free and then wraps it around me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, snuggling into it.
“Have you taken any meds?”
“Yes.”
“Eaten?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a good thing I’m here then, huh?” he says before hobbling to the kitchen and unloading everything in the bag.
I can’t see what it is because his frame hides it all from my view, but I can’t say I’m disappointed as I watch his back muscles flex beneath the thin fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Oh, please,” I rasp when he starts rooting through my cupboards in search of something. “Help yourself.”
“Would you prefer to come over here and get it all yourself?” he shoots over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips.
My lips press into a thin line, but I can’t maintain it, because my nose starts running like a freaking faucet, and I’m forced to reach for my tissues to stem it.
“Thought so,” he mutters as he continues opening and closing doors until he finds what he wants. “Aha.”
He pulls down a glass before finally locating a bowl.
“Do you have a tray?”
“A tray?” I echo.
“Yeah, you know, usually a wooden or plas—”
“I know what a tray is,” I snap.
I shouldn’t be getting irritated by him. He’s turned up to help me out. But I can’t help it.
This incredibly hot hockey player has no place flitting around in my apartment looking all hot and—ugh.
I throw myself back on the couch and force myself not to watch him. The last thing I need is for him to catch me and think I’m interested in more than what he’s about to serve me.
It takes a few minutes more of him crashing about in my kitchen before he finally makes his way over.
His walk is awkward as he tries not to put all his weight onto his bad leg, making the tray wobble ominously.
But before I can untangle myself from the blanket to help, he’s lowering it to the coffee table before me.
“Oatmeal, fresh fruit, and a smoothie, all packed with vitamin C. Plus a chocolate croissant and a caramel latte because…well, what woman doesn’t love a pastry and coffee?”
“Right,” I muse, staring at it all, my eyes burning with emotion.
What he’s done is incredibly sweet, and…fuck. I don’t need to look at Killer through any other eyes than the ones that know without a doubt that he’s a fuckboy.
“That’s okay, right? Oh shit, you’re not lactose intolerant or something, are you? I didn’t even think to—”
“No, I’m not. Thank you, this was very thoughtful.”
“I figured that I owe you an apology.”
My brows pinch; my brain too fuzzy to figure out riddles.
“For the noise,” he says, filling in the blanks.
“Oh, right. Yes. That.”
His eyes hold mine for a few moments before he lifts his arm and looks at his watch.
“Shit. Linc is outside.”
“You’re leaving?” I blurt like a fucking idiot. I blame the meds, because there’s no way I want him to stay with me. Nope. Not a single one.
“I’ve got a rehab session, and we’ve got a team meeting and—”
“Of course,” I murmur. “Thank you for all this. I hope you have a good day.”
“Can I get you anything before I leave?”
His eyes bounce between mine as he waits for a response, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s silently begging me to give him a reason to stay.
But why? I’m sick. I won’t exactly be good company.
“N-no, I’m good, thank you.”
He nods once before turning around and disappearing from my apartment, almost as fast as he entered it.
I’m left with my head spinning, as the scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastry fills the air.
I know I should go for the good stuff first, the foods that will help my immune system fight this, but I can’t stop myself from reaching for the croissant and coffee. And damn, am I glad I do. They’re both delicious. I’m gonna need to know where he got these from.
Once I’ve eaten, I wiggle myself deeper under the blanket, and with a home makeover show playing on my TV, I drift in and out of sleep for hours, only waking when my temperature either soars or dips, or I need the bathroom.
I’m dozing off again when my cell starts ringing. With a groan, I search the couch for the irritating noise, but I don’t open my eyes to check the caller ID before swiping to connect, assuming it’s Bea.
“I’m still alive,” I croak.
When a deep chuckle hits my ear, my eyes fly open.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Killer?”
“The one and only, baby.”
“Fucking hell,” I breathe as I relax back into the couch.
“Christ, you really know how to hit a guy’s ego. Most women would be beside themselves if I opened the door to them in the middle of the night, delivered them breakfast the next morning, and called to check in.”
I shake my head. “I’m not most women,” I confirm.
Silence stretches between us.
“You still there?” I eventually ask.
“Yeah, sorry. How are you feeling?”
“Like hell,” I confess.
“Have you eaten and taken more meds?”
“Yes, Dr. Keller.”
“You know, I prefer a simple ‘sir.’”
I snort a laugh that rips at my tender throat and has me falling into a full-blown coughing fit.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” I wheeze.
“Truly, I am.”
“I can hear you smirking.”
“You cannot hear a smirk,” he argues.
“Sure can. If a hockey player is talking to a woman, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s a cocky smirk playing on his lips.”
“Uh…”
I give myself a mental fist bump for making him speechless. Something tells me that doesn’t happen very often.
“So you’re doing okay, then?” he asks, a little awkwardly. I can only assume this is a very different kind of interaction from what he’s used to having with women.
“Great. Best day of my life,” I deadpan. “How did you get my number?”
“Um…Rett gave it to me. Don’t be mad at him,” he adds in a rush. “He didn’t hand it over easily.”
“Like the knowledge that I moved in beneath you that he seems to have kept to himself.”
“Yeah, not sure what he’s playing at there,” Calvin confesses.
There’s another silence, but this one is different from the first.
“I’m gonna go,” I say quietly.
“Okay. I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. Don’t work too hard.”
“Pfft, there’s no chance of that,” he dismisses before we end the call.
I sit there in the silence of my apartment, running that whole conversation through my head and wondering what the hell just happened.
Since when do I have NHL players calling to check in on me?
Since today, apparently.
When I wake my cell up again, I find that I’ve got messages from Bea and my mom, along with a whole heap of email and social media notifications.
I reply to both messages but ignore everything else. It can all be tomorrow’s problem. Or maybe even the day after.
I manage to eat half the oatmeal after drinking the smoothie, and I barely make it thirty minutes into the new show that starts before I’m drifting off to sleep again.
I can’t remember the last time I was this sick, and I don’t want to repeat it anytime soon. The only time I’m good at doing nothing is when I’m lying on a lounger next to a pool with the sun beating down on me.
When I wake up enough to function, the sun is setting, casting a beautiful orange hue through my apartment.
Fall is firmly upon us. The trees have shed their leaves, and the mornings and evenings are getting a little brisker.
Thanksgiving is right around the corner.
A little excitement stirs within me at the thought of seeing my parents.
Of having our little family together again for a couple of days.
We don’t get to spend anywhere near enough time together these days, and I always savor every moment we get.
At least that’s one good thing about getting the flu this week: it isn’t going to stop me from traveling.
The plate of fresh fruit taunts me from the coffee table as I shuffle back from the bathroom with the blanket wrapped around me so I’m a human burrito.
I’m not hungry, but also…
“Oh my god.” I groan when the sweetness of the strawberry hits my parched mouth. Before I know it, I’ve eaten the entire plate.
Grabbing the TV remote, I begin scrolling through Netflix, hoping I might be able to stay awake long enough after sleeping all day to watch a movie.
None of the new releases call to me, so I go back to some of my old favorites—the comfort movies I used to watch with Mom and Garrett when we were teenagers.
There’s something about late-nineties and early-two-thousands rom-coms that just hits differently.
Especially when you’re not feeling yourself.
I’m about to hit play on Bring It On when there’s a rap at my front door.
My eyes shoot in that direction.
Surely not.
There’s no way I’ll have a hockey player at my door twice in one day.
This time, it’ll be Bea, or one of the others. Surely, it can’t be Killer again?
But after making my way to the front door, I pull it open to exactly that.
“What’s this? Déjà vu?”
“Nah, baby. This time I come with dinner, not breakfast.”