Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cooper
The table by the window—Jack’s table—remained stubbornly empty despite the steady stream of weekend customers flowing through The Coffee Cove.
I watched the door between pulling shots and tracked every figure that passed by the large front windows.
None of them had Jack’s easy stride or the way he always paused just inside the doorway to scan the shop until his gaze found me behind the counter.
My hands moved on autopilot, steaming milk and crafting drinks, while my mind catalogued all the reasons Jack might be running late. Oversleeping, a last-minute errand, a client’s emergency. All perfectly reasonable explanations that did nothing to ease the knot of concern tightening in my stomach.
By 10:15, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I pulled out my phone, and my thumbs hesitated over the keyboard before I typed:
Coming in today? Your usual table is getting lonely.
The reply came back faster than I’d expected.
Sick. Stomach flu.
My blood went cold. The stomach bug. The same one that had taken out Jessica and Marco earlier in the week, when Jack had stepped in to keep the shop running.
And now Jack had it.
Jack, who lived alone in his apartment. Jack, who had no family to call, had no one to check on him. Jack, who was probably curled up on the floor of his bathroom right now with no one to bring him water or make sure he didn’t get dangerously dehydrated.
The protective instinct that surged through me caught me off guard with its intensity. This wasn’t just concern—this was need. The need to be there, to take care of Jack, to make sure he was okay. More than that, I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the person Jack could count on.
“Jessica,” I called out, already untying my apron. “I need you and Marco to take over. I’m leaving.”
Jessica looked up from the register, eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. “You’re what now? Cooper, you haven’t taken a sick day in the year I’ve worked here. You came in with a broken wrist.”
“It’s not a sick day.” I grabbed my keys from under the register. “Jack’s got the stomach flu—the same bug you guys had. He’s alone.”
Understanding dawned in Jessica’s eyes, followed by something that looked like approval. She nodded firmly. “Go. Marco and I have your back. We’ve got this.”
I was already halfway to the door. “Text me if—”
“Cooper.” Jessica’s voice was gentle but firm. “We’ve got this. Take care of your man.”
The words sent warmth shooting through my chest even as I pushed through the door into the morning air. My man. When had that happened? When had Jack become more than my best friend?
I didn’t have time to analyze it now. Jack needed me, and I was damn well going to be there. The Jack who’d helped me through statistics, failed relationships, and coming out to my disapproving parents wouldn’t suffer alone if I had anything to say about it.
I stopped at the corner market first and filled a basket with sick-day essentials: water, Gatorade, crackers, broth, Pepto, ibuprofen, and a thermometer.
By the time I returned to Tides & Tales, I was juggling two full bags and a flat of water. The bell above the bookstore’s door jingled as I shouldered my way inside, trying not to knock anything into the carefully arranged display of new releases.
Mason looked up from behind the counter, setting down the book he’d been reading. “Cooper? What’s all this?”
“Jack’s sick.” I adjusted my grip on the grocery bags. “Stomach flu. I need to get upstairs to check on him.”
Mason’s face creased with concern. He stood up. “Oh no, that poor guy. He looked a bit off yesterday when he came down for his mail, but I thought he was just tired.”
“Can you let me into the stairwell?” I shifted the water bottles under my arm. The plastic cut into my forearm.
“Of course.” Mason came around the counter and pulled a set of keys from his jeans pocket. “How bad is he?”
“I don’t know yet.” I followed Mason toward the front of the store. “He just texted that he was sick. No one should have to deal with that bug alone.”
Mason nodded as he held the door open for me. “Jack’s lucky to have someone like you.”
We stepped outside onto the sidewalk, and Mason led me a few yards down to the plain door at the side of the bookstore. He unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing the steep staircase that led up into the apartments above.
“Tell him I said to feel better, and if either of you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Mason.” I started up the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. The bags seemed to get heavier with each step, but I pressed on, taking the steps two at a time.
By the third-floor landing, I was winded but determined. I balanced everything precariously to knock on his door. No answer. I knocked louder.
“Jack? It’s Cooper.”
A groan from inside, then a hoarse voice: “Go away. I’m contagious.”
“I’m immune,” I lied. “Let me in.”
Muffled grumbling reached me, followed by the sound of the lock turning.
The door opened. Jack looked worse than I’d ever seen him.
His face was flushed with fever, his eyes glazed.
A rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants hung on his listless body, and his hair stood in sweaty spikes.
He leaned heavily against the doorframe, as if standing upright required all his remaining energy.
“You look like hell.” I pushed past him into the apartment.
“Thanks,” he rasped. He closed the door and immediately leaned against it. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking care of you.” I headed straight for his kitchen. “When did you last take something for the fever?”
Jack shuffled after me, moving like a man three times his age. “I don’t know. I got up to take it sometime last night.”
“Before or after midnight?” I unpacked the groceries.
He frowned and thought too hard about the simple question. “Before midnight, I think.”
“So you’re overdue.” I found a glass, filled it with water, and shook two tablets from the bottle I’d brought. “Take these. Then back to bed.”
“Cooper, you need to be at the shop. You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” I cut him off gently. “I want to. Now take the medicine and stop arguing.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his feverish face. “Bossy.”
“You like it.” I pressed the glass and pills into his hands.
He took the fever reducer without further protest, then allowed me to steer him back to his bedroom. The sheets were sweat-soaked, blankets tangled in a heap at the foot of the bed.
“When did you last change these?” I asked, though I could guess the answer.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Been a little busy being sick.”
“I’m changing them before you get back in.”
“Cooper, seriously, you don’t need to—”
“Jack,” I said firmly. “I’m helping. Do you feel up to taking a quick shower? It might help you feel a little better.”
“I can try,” he said, his voice weak.
I pulled a clean T-shirt and sleep pants from his dresser and handed them over. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Jack nodded and trudged slowly toward the bathroom. The water ran, then stopped after what couldn’t have been more than three minutes. When he emerged, his hair damp, he looked marginally better but completely drained.
“Jack,” I said firmly, “sit down before you fall down.”
He sat in the corner chair and watched through fever-bright eyes as I stripped his bed and replaced the sheets with fresh ones from his closet. It was such an intimate task, handling the bedding where he slept, remaking his private space. Yet, it felt completely natural to take care of him.
“There.” I pulled back the clean sheets. “Much better. In you go.”
Jack shuffled back to the bed and practically collapsed onto it, his body clearly at the end of its resources.
I pulled the covers up around him and repositioned the trash can next to his bed in case he blew chunks.
I resisted the urge to smooth his hair back from his forehead like my mother used to do for me when I was little. Before…well, before.
“I’m going to grab you a bottle of Gatorade.” I squeezed his shoulder. “Try to rest.”
“You really don’t have to stay,” he mumbled, but his eyes were already drifting closed. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m staying,” I said simply. “Sleep now.”
I returned to the kitchen and sent a text to Jessica to let her know I was at Jack’s and would stay to take care of him. She replied, K.
An unexpected wave of possessive satisfaction ran through me. Jack needed someone, and that someone was me. Not because of The Boyfriend Bargain, not because I was his closest friend, but because I chose to be the person who helped him through this.
I placed Gatorade and crackers on his bedside table and settled onto his couch with my phone.
I could keep myself busy while he slept and stay close enough to check on him regularly.
I checked my email, played a game, and every twenty minutes or so, peered into his bedroom to make sure he was still resting comfortably.
Around noon, he woke and vomited, the retching sounding painful enough to make me wince in sympathy. I cleaned the trash bin, gave him a wet cloth for washing, and helped him rinse and spit. I handed him the bottle of Gatorade and helped him sit up. “Small sips.”
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice a ragged whisper.
“Just after noon,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a truck.” He moaned and fell back against the pillows. “Then backed over again to make sure.”
I pressed my palm to his forehead before I could think better of the intimate gesture. He was still burning up, and his skin radiated heat. I took his temperature and read the digital display.
“You’re still too warm,” I said. “But do you think you could eat something to keep up your strength? I’ve got chicken broth.”
“Not sure if I’ll keep it down.”
“We’ll try,” I said. “Just a little.”