28. Blake
Chapter 28
Blake
M y tongue felt like sandpaper, and my limbs were made of concrete.
Something wasn't right. I blinked my eyes open, immediately regretting the decision as a shaft of morning light hit them with the precision of a laser beam. My head pounded in response, and my stomach lurched. But the ache in my body and sweat on my forehead clued me in that this wasn’t a hangover.
I was sick. Spectacularly, undeniably sick.
"No," I groaned, trying to push myself up. "Not today."
The room spun, and I flopped back onto the pillow, a pathetic sound escaping my lips. Today was Wednesday. My first official Wednesday Lunch Club meeting. I'd been working toward this for months, had even prepared small talk topics about Mrs. Schulster's demonic dog. The invitation had been hard-won through strategic ham bribes and what felt like years of trying to prove I wasn't just some weird pink-haired artist invading their town.
Yet here I was, struck down by what felt like the plague on the very day of my social triumph.
"God, why do you hate me?" I whispered to the ceiling.
A soft knock came at the door, and Xander's head popped in. His brow furrowed as he took in my state.
"Are you okay?" He stepped into the room, immediately going into doctor mode. "You don't look great."
"Wow, flattery will get you everywhere," I mumbled, attempting to sit up again.
He was by my side in an instant, his palm cool against my forehead. "You're burning up. How long have you felt like this?"
"I don't know. Since I woke up." I swallowed, my throat feeling like I'd been gargling glass. "What time is it?"
"Almost nine."
"Nine?" I tried to bolt upright, but my head spun violently in protest. "Amelia—"
"Is fine," Xander said, gently pushing me back down. "Fed, changed, and currently fascinated by her own reflection in that little mirror toy."
I relaxed marginally, but my mind immediately jumped to the next crisis. "The lunch club. I can't miss it, Xander. Do you think if I just—"
"Absolutely not." His voice was firm but gentle. "You're running a fever, and you can barely sit up. The Wednesday Lunch Club will survive without you."
I felt tears stinging my eyes, which was ridiculous. I wasn't a crier, especially not over something as trivial as missing lunch with a bunch of elderly gossips. But right now, with every cell in my body rebelling and my head pounding like a bass drum, it felt like the end of the world.
"I can't," I whispered. "I haven't even—they'll think I'm blowing them off, and I'll never get another invitation."
Xander's expression softened.
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hand in his.
"I'll call Carol and explain. She'll understand."
"You don't know these women," I argued weakly. "They're like the social mafia of Willowbrook. One wrong move and you're sleeping with the fishes. Or at least they're talking about how you sleep with the fishes."
He huffed out a laugh, squeezing my hand.
"I promise you'll get another chance. But right now, you need to rest and hydrate." He stood, all efficient doctor energy again. "I'm going to get you some medicine, water, and something light for your stomach. Don't move."
As if I could. I watched as he left the room, trying to ignore the crushing disappointment. My obsession with the Wednesday Lunch Club wasn't about town gossip. It was about belonging. About finally carving out a place for myself in Willowbrook that wasn't just defined by my relationship with Delaney's family or even Xander. Something mine.
And now, thanks to whatever virus had decided to throw a rager in my immune system, it was slipping through my fingers.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, Xander was gently shaking me awake. He'd returned with a tray bearing water, pills, a steaming mug of something that smelled like lemon and honey, and a plate of plain toast.
"How's Amelia?" I asked immediately, my voice scratchy and raw.
"Still happy as a clam," he assured me, helping me sit up against the pillows.
"She just went down for her morning nap."
He handed me two pills and the glass of water.
"Tylenol for the fever and headache."
I dutifully swallowed them, grimacing at the effort.
"So what's the diagnosis, Doc?" I asked, trying for lightness despite feeling like death warmed over. "Will I live to paint another day?"
"It's probably just a nasty flu," he said, his mouth curving into a half-smile.
"But if your fever goes up or you start having trouble breathing, we're going to the hospital."
"Always so dramatic," I muttered, but secretly, I was touched by his concern.
"Humor me," he said, handing me the mug. "Drink this. It'll help your throat."
I took a sip of the hot liquid—honey, lemon, and was that ginger?
It soothed my raw throat as it went down.
"This is good."
"My grandfather's recipe," he said with a shrug. "He was one of the few good things I remember from childhood."
The mention of his past made something in my chest twist. It was so rare for him to volunteer information about his life before returning to Willowbrook. I wanted to ask more but didn't have the energy to carefully navigate those waters.
"Thank you," I said instead. "For taking care of me. And Amelia."
His expression softened. "That's what family does, Blake."
Family. The word hung between us, loaded with meaning neither of us was quite ready to unpack. But it felt right.
He checked his watch. "I have a call with the medical equipment supplier in half an hour. Will you be okay for a bit?"
"I'll be fine," I assured him, though even talking was exhausting. "Go do your doctor things."
He hesitated, clearly torn between duty and worry. I waved him off. "Seriously, I'm just going to sleep. Go save lives and order... I don't know, stethoscopes or whatever."
That earned me a grin. "Try to eat some toast if you can. I'll check on you after my call."
I nodded, already feeling my eyelids drooping again. As he left, I found myself wondering when exactly Xander Farrington had become so essential to my world. When had his steady presence become something I counted on? I fell asleep before I could find an answer.
My fever dreams were vivid and strange. I was painting, but the colors kept changing as soon as I applied them to the canvas. The harder I tried to capture the image in my mind, the more it slipped away. Then I was in a boat, drifting on a lake, with Amelia strapped to my chest in her baby carrier. The water was rising, and I couldn't find the shore.
I woke with a gasp, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat.
"It's okay," Xander's voice came from beside the bed. "You're okay."
I blinked, trying to orient myself. Xander was sitting in a chair he'd pulled up next to the bed, Amelia sleeping against his chest. He had one hand rubbing gentle circles on her back while the other held open a medical journal.
"What time is it?" I croaked.
"Almost two," he said, setting down his reading. "How are you feeling?"
I took stock of my body. Still achy and hot, but the headache had dulled to a manageable throb. "Like I got hit by a truck, but maybe a smaller truck than before."
He reached over to press the back of his hand to my forehead, his touch cool and confident. "Still pretty warm. Let me get the thermometer."
"Wait," I caught his wrist, suddenly paranoid. "What about Amelia? What if she gets it too?"
"I’m pretty sure she’s the one who gave it to you," he said, glancing down at the sleeping baby on his chest. "But I'll keep an eye on her. Try not to worry."
Easy for him to say. Worry was my default setting, especially when it came to Amelia. But I was too exhausted to argue.
He gently transferred Amelia to her crib, then disappeared briefly before returning with the thermometer and a fresh glass of water.
"101.3," he announced after taking my temperature. "Coming down, but still high." He handed me more medicine and the water. "How's your stomach?"
"Empty," I admitted. "But not actively revolting anymore."
"Progress," he said with an encouraging smile. "Think you could manage some soup?"
My stomach growled in answer, and Xander's smile widened.
"I'll take that as a yes. I've got chicken noodle simmering. Delaney dropped it off earlier."
"Delaney was here?" I tried to imagine what I must look like right now. Probably like something a cat would drag in and then immediately drag back out again because it was too disgusting.
"She wanted to check on you," he said, helping me sit up straighter. "And bring supplies. I think half the town knows you're sick now."
"Great," I groaned. "So much for my cool, artistic mystique."
Xander laughed. "I think your pink hair pretty much shot that mystique in the foot a long time ago."
"Excuse you, my hair is the epitome of artistic mystique."
"If you say so." But his eyes were warm with amusement and something softer that made my heart do a pathetic little flutter.
He helped me to the bathroom, where I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately regretted it. I looked like I'd been dragged backward through a hedge and then left out in the rain. My pink hair was a tangled mess, my skin was sallow except for two bright fever spots on my cheeks, and my eyes were glassy and red-rimmed.
"Don't judge me," I told my reflection. "It's been a rough day."
After using the toilet and splashing some cold water on my face, I felt marginally more human. Xander was waiting outside the door, ready to help me back to bed, but I shook my head.
"Can I go to the living room? I'm tired of staring at these four walls."
He hesitated, and I could practically see him weighing the medical pros and cons. "Alright," he finally agreed. "But you're taking the blanket."
I didn't argue as he wrapped the comforter around my shoulders and guided me to the couch. He got me settled with pillows, water, and the TV remote before heading to the kitchen to heat up the soup.
I spaced out until he was standing in front of me with a bowl in one hand.
"You've been juggling work and baby duty all day," I realized, guilt washing over me. "I'm sorry."
He sat beside me, handing me the soup. "Don't be ridiculous. We're a team, remember? When one of us is down, the other picks up the slack."
"Still," I said, carefully blowing on a spoonful of broth. "I know you had that big call today, and probably a million other things to do for the clinic."
"It's fine," he assured me. "The call went well, and everything else can wait. You and Amelia come first."
Such a simple statement, but it hit me like a physical force. You and Amelia come first . No one had ever put me first before. Not my parents, certainly. Even with Delaney and Trace, as much as they loved me, they had each other and Cade. They were a family unit, and I was the beloved addition. But here was Xander, rearranging his entire day, his work, his life, to take care of me and Amelia without a second thought.
Because we were his family now.
"Blake?" His voice cut through my thoughts. "You okay? You're looking a little teary."
"It's just the fever," I lied, quickly taking another spoonful of soup. "Makes me emotional."
He looked unconvinced but didn't press. Instead, he turned on the TV, finding some mindless home renovation show with the volume low. We sat in comfortable silence as I slowly made my way through the soup, each spoonful requiring more effort than it should have.
As if on cue, Amelia began to stir in our room, making those adorable little grunting noises that preceded either a full-blown cry or a spectacular diaper blowout.
"I've got her," Xander said, setting my empty bowl aside and standing up. My heart ached at the sight of him walking back into the room with Amela in his arms. "Hey there, little bit. Did you have a good nap?"
I watched as he lifted her with practiced ease, checking her diaper with the fluid motions of someone who'd done it a hundred times. When had that happened? When had Xander become so comfortable, so natural with her?
"Ah, I think we might need a change," he announced, grabbing the diaper bag. "And then probably a bottle. You hungry, sweetheart? Ready for some lunch?"
My chest tightened as I watched him tend to Amelia, his big hands gentle as he laid her on the changing pad that had become a permanent addition underneath the coffee table, his voice soft as he narrated what he was doing. "Let's get you all clean, and then we'll make that bottle. Mommy's not feeling well today, so it's just you and me, kid."
Mommy.
The word hit me like a freight train. He probably hadn't even realized he'd said it, but it echoed in my head like a bell. Mommy. Was that what I was? What I wanted to be?
The answer came immediately, without hesitation. Yes.
I wanted to be her mother, in every sense that mattered. I wanted to be the one she ran to with skinned knees and broken hearts. I wanted to cheer at her soccer games and help with science projects and argue about curfews. I wanted the whole messy, beautiful, terrifying package.
And I wanted it with Xander by my side.
The realization was so overwhelming that for a moment I couldn't breathe.
"You okay?" Xander asked, glancing over as he finished fastening Amelia's clean diaper.
"Mmm," I managed, not trusting my voice. The fever was making me dangerously emotional, and I was afraid of what might come out if I started talking.
He gave me a concerned look but returned his attention to Amelia, lifting her and bringing her over to sit beside me on the couch.
"I'm just going to make her bottle," he said, passing her to me. "You good to hold her for a bit?"
I nodded, wrapping my arms around Amelia's warm little body. She stared up at me with those big curious eyes, like she was trying to figure out why I looked so awful.
"Sorry I'm such a mess today, strawberry," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But don't worry. Xander's taking good care of us."
She grabbed a strand of my limp hair, giving it an experimental tug. Despite feeling like death warmed over, I smiled. Even sick as a dog, there was nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with her.
Xander returned with a bottle, and I started to hand Amelia back, but he stopped me.
"You can feed her if you feel up to it," he said. "Just let me help."
He sat beside us, arranging pillows to support my arms so I wouldn't have to use my depleted strength. Then he handed me the bottle, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sent a different kind of heat through me.
Amelia latched onto the bottle eagerly, her little hands coming up to rest against it. I relaxed back into the couch, feeling some of the tension leave my body. This was good. This was right.
"You're a natural, you know," Xander said, watching us with a soft expression.
"At being sick?" I joked weakly.
"At being a mom," he corrected. "I've never seen someone take to it so quickly, especially with a baby that isn't—" He stopped, clearly realizing what he was about to say.
"Biologically mine?" I finished for him.
He nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," I assured him. "She isn't. Not technically. But in all the ways that matter..." I trailed off, staring down at the baby in my arms. "She's mine. Ours."
The word hung between us, loaded with meaning. I hadn't meant to say it, but there it was.
Xander's hand came to rest on my shoulder, a warm, steady weight. "Ours," he agreed softly.
“Is it weird that I want to enjoy the bottles while they last?”
“Definitely not.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, leaning it to watch Amelia exactly like I was.
We sat like that for a while, the three of us in a little bubble while some perky TV host enthused about open-concept kitchens in the background. Amelia finished her bottle, and Xander took her to burp her, his large hand gentle as he patted her back.
The simple domesticity of it all made my throat tight. Was this what my life would be now? Quiet moments like this, the three of us together, taking care of each other?
It was everything I'd never known I wanted.
My eyelids grew heavy again, the brief burst of energy from the soup fading fast. I fought to keep them open, not wanting to miss a moment of this strangely perfect afternoon.
"Stop fighting it," Xander said, noticing my struggle. "Sleep helps you heal."
"Don't you ever get tired of being right?" I mumbled, my words slurring slightly as exhaustion took over.
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Never."
"Stay?" I asked, already drifting. "Both of you?"
"We're not going anywhere," he promised.
I felt him adjusting the blanket around me, his touch so gentle it made my heart ache. As I slipped into sleep, I thought I felt his lips press against my forehead, but maybe that was just the fever playing tricks on me.
I woke to the sound of Xander's voice, low and soothing. For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, just listening. He was talking to Amelia, who was making occasional cooing sounds in response.
"...and that's how a stethoscope works," he was saying. "Maybe when you're a little bigger, I'll let you listen to my heartbeat with one. Would you like that?"
Amelia gurgled, and Xander laughed softly.
"I'll take that as a yes. Your mommy would probably say I'm boring you with all this medical talk, but it's never too early to start learning. Maybe you'll be a doctor someday. Or an artist like your mom. Or something completely different. That's the exciting part—you can be anything."
There it was again. Mommy. Your mom. The words made something warm unfurl in my chest.
"The important thing," Xander continued, his voice growing softer, more serious, "is that you know we'll always be here for you. No matter what. I'm not going anywhere, little bit. You and your mom are stuck with me."
The fever must have lowered my defenses completely, because before I could stop myself, I whispered, "I love you."
The words hung in the air, and I realized with horror what I'd just said. I hadn't meant to say it out loud—hadn't even fully processed the thought before it escaped my lips.
Xander went silent. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me, shock evident on his face, Amelia propped against his chest as he held what appeared to be a medical journal.
"Blake?" he said, his voice careful, measured.
"Sorry," I mumbled, heat flooding my face that had nothing to do with my fever. "I didn't—I mean—it must be the fever talking. I'm not thinking clearly."
Why was I even trying to backpedal? It was true. I did love him. I loved the way he cared for Amelia, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't noticing, the way he'd built a life for us when we needed it most.
Xander studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Was he trying to decide if I'd meant it? If the fever had made me delirious? If our carefully constructed arrangement was about to come crashing down around us?
"Hey," he said softly, standing and bringing Amelia over. "How are you feeling?"
He was letting me off the hook, pretending I hadn't just dropped an emotional bombshell. Relief and disappointment warred within me.
"Better," I said, surprised to find it was true. "Still not great, but better."
"Good." He came closer, adjusting Amelia in his arms. "Let me check your temperature."
He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, his touch gentle. "You feel cooler. The medicine must be working."
"What time is it?"
"Almost six," he said, glancing at his watch. "You've been out for a while."
I pushed myself to a sitting position, relieved when the room didn't spin. "Have you been sitting here the whole time? With Amelia?"
"We've been busy," he said with a small smile. "Lots to discuss. Medical ethics, the proper way to sterilize equipment, the existential implications of Peek-a-Boo. You know, the usual."
I laughed, wincing slightly as it irritated my throat. "Sounds riveting."
"She's a great conversationalist," he said, looking down at Amelia with such tenderness it made my heart hurt. "Very insightful for someone who can't actually form words yet."
"She gets that from me," I joked, extending my arms. "Can I hold her?"
He passed her over carefully, and I breathed in her baby smell, a mix of powder and something uniquely her. She stared up at me with those big eyes, her tiny hand reaching up to pat my cheek.
"Hi, strawberry," I whispered. "I missed you."
She babbled back in response, a serious look on her face, and I felt my eyes prickling with tears again. God, being sick made me so emotional.
"So," I said, clearing my throat and looking up at Xander. "How was the Wednesday Lunch Club? Am I permanently blacklisted?"
"Well, I didn't actually attend in your place," he said with a grin. "But I did call Carol to explain. She said, and I quote, 'Tell that poor girl to rest up and not to worry. We're saving all the good gossip for when she's better.'"
Relief washed over me. "Really?"
"Really," he confirmed, sitting down beside me. "And apparently Mrs. Schulster's dog has been inconsolable without his new favorite baby to stare at."
"Titus has good taste," I said, smiling down at Amelia.
"Carol also said something about meeting next week at the diner instead of the café because Daniel got into an argument with Helen about properly storing baked goods, but honestly, I stopped following about halfway through."
I laughed. Small town politics were so ridiculous and yet somehow endearing. "Thank you," I said, looking up at him. "For everything today. Taking care of Amelia, taking care of me. Making those calls."
"You don't have to thank me," he said, his expression serious. "This is where I want to be, Blake. With you and Amelia."
The sincerity in his voice stole my breath. There was no flirtation, no playfulness—just raw honesty that cut straight through all my defenses.
"I heard what you said," I admitted quietly. "To Amelia. About being stuck with you."
A faint blush colored his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "I meant it."
"I know you did," I said, surprising myself with my certainty. "And I'm glad. Because I don't want to do this without you, Xander."
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. "Do what?" he asked, voice low.
"Any of it," I said simply. "All of it."
His smile was slow and beautiful, lighting up his entire face. "Good. Because you were right the other night. I can’t sit her stick in my fear, and let life pass me by. I'm in this for the long haul. With both of you."
He leaned in, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. There was a question there, and beneath it, a shadow of uncertainty. Was he wondering if I'd meant what I'd said earlier? If I remembered saying it at all?
Then he stopped, his expression turning sheepish.
"Though maybe no kissing until you're not contagious anymore," he said, regret clear in his voice.
I huffed out a laugh, both relieved and disappointed. "Probably wise. Wouldn't want the whole Farrington household down with the plague."
"Exactly," he agreed. "Very impractical."
But the look in his eyes promised that when I was better, we'd have to address what had passed between us. The words I couldn't take back. The feelings I wasn't sure I wanted to hide anymore.
Amelia let out a sudden squeal, kicking her legs against my stomach as if to remind us she was still there. Xander laughed, reaching out to tickle her foot.
"Sorry, little bug. Didn't mean to ignore you."
She grabbed his finger, holding on with that surprising strength that always amazed me. And just like that, we were back to being a family—an unusual, unexpected one, but a family nonetheless.
I settled back against the couch, Amelia warm and solid in my arms, Xander's steady presence beside me. My body still ached, my throat still hurt, and I was pretty sure I looked like a disaster, but in that moment, I couldn't remember ever feeling so content.
Maybe getting sick wasn't the worst thing after all. Sometimes it took being knocked flat on your back to realize exactly where you wanted to be standing when you got up again.
And I was exactly where I wanted to be.