Chapter 14
She slipped out of his bedroom, determined to find something to relieve his fever. His bathroom was what she’d expected—immaculate, expensive, and organized with exacting care. The medicine cabinet yielded Tylenol, which she grabbed before filling a glass with cool water.
When she returned to his bedroom, his normally composed features were flushed, dark hair falling across his forehead. Disheveled, vulnerable, and nothing like the version of him she was used to seeing.
“Here,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. “You need to take these and drink all of this water.”
He struggled to sit up, and she instinctively slid an arm behind his shoulders to help. The heat from his skin, even through his shirt, was alarming.
“You’re still burning up,” she said quietly, pressing her palm to his forehead again. “We should check your temperature. Where’s your thermometer?”
“Medicine cabinet. Top shelf.”
She found the thermometer just where he’d said it would be, of course.
When she returned, he had sunk back against the pillows, his eyes closed.
“Ronan,” she said. “I’m going to take your temperature now.”
His eyes opened, an eyebrow arching weakly. “Not very romantic.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “Are you delirious already? Because you making jokes is definitely a symptom.”
His thermometer was a sleek digital model that looked like it belonged in a doctor’s office. She pointed it at his temple and pressed the button.
The device beeped within seconds. She read the display, eyes widening.
“103.2,” she said. “That’s not good. You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual authority.
“Okay,” she said, fixing him with a stern look. “But if this doesn’t bring your fever down, I’m calling someone. Non-negotiable.”
He sighed, too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Acceptable terms.”
She headed to his kitchen to get what she needed for a compress. The space was sleek, spotless, and looked barely used—exactly what she’d expected from him.
She filled a bowl with ice and water, grabbed a clean dish towel, and returned to find him shivering beneath the covers.
“Cold,” he whispered, pulling the duvet tighter around himself.
“I know,” she said, setting the bowl on his nightstand. “But we need to cool you down.” She soaked the towel, wrung it out, and placed it on his forehead. He flinched at the contact. “Sorry. Necessary evil.”
For the next hour, she replaced the cold cloth each time it lost its chill, watching with growing concern as his shivering intensified despite the fever-reducer.
His usually calm face was tight with discomfort.
He mumbled about quarterly reports and contracts—a detail that might have been funny any other time.
When his temperature refused to drop below 103, she hesitated, weighing her options.
She’d cared for her grandmother through several winter illnesses, and she remembered what the doctor had recommended when conventional methods weren’t working.
Though it seemed counterintuitive with his high fever, sometimes comfort was what the body needed most to heal.
“Ronan,” she said, shaking his shoulder gently. “You’re still shivering too much. The cold compresses aren’t helping if you can’t relax.”
His eyes opened to half-mast. “What else…?”
She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Sometimes contact helps,” she said, trying to sound clinical rather than mortified. “Not to heat you up more—your body’s already doing that—but to help you feel less miserable while the medicine works.”
Even in his feverish state, his eyebrows rose. “You’re suggesting…?”
“Don’t make this weird,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “I’m going to sit with you until you stop shaking. That’s it.”
A ghost of his usual smirk appeared. “Shouldn’t it be skin-to-skin contact?”
She snorted, grateful for the moment of levity. “In your dreams, Wilder.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, his gaze direct despite the fever. “You have been.”
She drew a sharp breath. His eyes held a raw honesty brought on by the fever, a look that made her own heart pound.
“That’s definitely the delirium talking,” she managed, keeping her tone casual even as warmth and recklessness threatened to surface.
“Perhaps,” he said, eyelids heavy.
She circled to the other side of the bed and sat beside him, her back against the headboard.
“Try to relax,” she said. “The more you fight the chills, the worse they get.”
His eyes met hers, unexpectedly open. “Stay?”
The single word held none of his usual commanding tone—a simple request that tugged at something deep inside her.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
Hesitantly, she reached out and began to stroke his hair, the dark strands surprisingly silky beneath her fingers. The gesture had a calming effect. His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out. She continued the soothing motion, watching as the tension in his face slowly eased.
“My grandmother used to do this when I was sick,” she said softly. “Said it was better medicine than anything from a bottle.”
“She was right,” he said, voice low. “Smart woman.”
“The smartest,” she agreed.
She expected him to maintain some distance, to keep that invisible barrier he always seemed to have around him. But as the minutes passed, his posture eased, and he gradually moved closer until his head rested against her thigh.
She froze, uncertain, but he seemed unaware of the intimacy of the position, his fevered body seeking solace.
This was the moment when everything shifted.
She could feel the weight of his head against her leg, the surprising softness of his hair beneath her fingers, the heat radiating from his flushed skin. But it was more than a physical sensation. The man who never showed weakness was now trusting her completely.
This isn’t my boss, she thought, the realization striking her with clarity.
This isn’t part of the deal. This is just Ronan.
Not Mr. Wilder, not the CEO, not even her fake fiancé.
Just the man who played Bach on his cello, who jumped into cold Atlantic water without hesitation, who was now seeking comfort in her presence.
Her heart did a slow turn in her chest as the truth she’d been avoiding crashed over her.
She was in love with him.
She stayed like that, one hand stroking his hair, the other resting on his shoulder, feeling each breath deepen as he finally relaxed into sleep. His shivering subsided, replaced by the even rhythm of deep slumber.
Only when she was certain he was completely asleep, did she dare consider extricating herself.
Moving like someone defusing a bomb, she began the delicate process of freeing herself without waking him.
Finally free, she eased herself off the bed.
He moved and turned his face into the pillow and continued sleeping.
She allowed herself a silent sigh of relief before checking his forehead once more. Still feverish, but the frantic heat had eased. Relief washed through her.
With one last glance she slipped out of the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.
Her grandmother’s chicken soup recipe was legendary for its healing properties.
Neighbors often requested it during illnesses.
The secret was the blend of herbs and slow-simmered bone broth, plus a dash of her grandmother’s special ingredient that had only been whispered to her when she turned eighteen.
Now, surveying his kitchen properly for the first time, she discovered what she’d suspected: the refrigerator contained protein shakes, cold brew coffee, and bizarrely, an untouched container of blueberries.
The pantry wasn’t much better: unopened spice jars, two onions with questionable motives, and carrots that had seen better days. Definitely not the makings of a feast.
She pulled out her phone and placed a grocery delivery order.
After placing it, she realized someone needed to let the office know they wouldn’t be in tomorrow. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and called HR.
The voice-mail picked up. She cleared her throat, then did her best impression of someone not unraveling.
“Hi, this is Devney Sinclair. Mr. Wilder has come down with a bug and won’t be in tomorrow. I’ve canceled his meetings and rescheduled the board call. I’ll be out as well—I seem to have caught the same thing. Thanks.”
She hung up and winced.
The moment the call ended, the truth dawned on her: both of them calling out on a Monday? HR was going to light up like a gossip Christmas tree. She could already hear the whispers:
“They’re both out sick today?”
“She’s been bringing him coffee every morning…”
“There’s definitely something going on.”
She dropped her phone onto the counter and groaned.
This wasn’t a sick day—it was an RSVP to the rumor mill.
That was a problem for tomorrow, though. Right now, he needed care.
The grocery delivery arrived, and she set to work preparing the soup. The routine was meditative—dicing onions, slicing carrots and celery, searing the chicken before adding the broth. As she worked, the kitchen filled with the comforting aromas of herbs and simmering chicken.
Making this soup—her grandmother’s recipe, the one reserved for family. It was the action of a woman who cared deeply, who was pouring her newfound emotions into every carefully measured ingredient.
Her phone rang, and her expression lifted when she saw Lucy’s name on the screen. She answered with one hand while stirring the pot with the other.
“Well, well,” Lucy said, “if it isn’t Mrs. Wilder-to-be. How was the weekend of fake matrimonial bliss?”
“It was…complicated,” she said, keeping her voice low. “He jumped into the Atlantic after I fell overboard.”
Silence. Then—“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “But now he’s running a fever of 103, and I’m at his place.”
“Oh my God,” Lucy said. “You’re playing nurse. In his apartment.”
“Making my grandmother’s chicken soup,” she said, adding a pinch of her secret ingredient.
“That’s not fake-fiancée behavior. That’s real relationship territory, with a side of rom-com.”
She froze, wooden spoon midair. “I’m being a decent human being,” she said, though the words felt hollow.
“Sure,” Lucy said. “Keep telling yourself that. But decent human beings call for help or drop off soup. They don’t spend the night and cook family recipes in kitchens that aren’t theirs.”
Lucy’s words echoed her own thoughts with uncomfortable accuracy.
“It’s not like that,” she said, though the ache in her chest suggested otherwise.
“If you say so,” Lucy said, clearly unconvinced. “Be careful, okay? This was supposed to be business, remember?”
“I remember,” she said, though the line between business and personal had been obliterated the moment she’d felt his head settle into her lap. “I should go. The soup needs attention.”
“The soup needs you,” Lucy said. “Right. Call me tomorrow with updates on your patient.”
As she hung up and turned back to the simmering pot, Lucy’s words echoed in her mind.
Real relationship territory.
She tried to dismiss them, focusing instead on the rhythmic motion of stirring, on the recipe that connected her to her grandmother, on anything but the man sleeping in the next room and the feelings she could no longer ignore.
But the realization had already taken root, and there was no going back.
She was in love with Ronan Wilder. Completely, desperately, hopelessly in love.
And when he recovered—when they returned to their normal roles of boss and assistant—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pretend that nothing had changed.