Chapter 5
I can't get out of bed on days when the temperature is less than my age.
Scarlett
W eston groans in his sleep. I glance over and notice he’s grimacing. I set my laptop on the floor and go to check on him. His forehead isn’t as hot as it was but he’s still warm and feverish. His cheeks are flushed, and his brow is sweaty.
I place a wet washcloth over his forehead. He sighs in relief.
“You take good care of me,” he mumbles.
“Shush. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re sweet.”
I sigh. He thinks I’m sweet now. The question is what does he think of me when he’s not delirious from a fever.
I force the thought out of my mind. It doesn’t matter what Weston thinks of me. I don’t live on Smuggler’s Hideaway anymore and I have no plans of returning for good.
I get back to work. I’d rather stream a show but with the Internet out, it’s work for me.
“Hey,” Weston speaks and I squeak in surprise. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. You seem better.”
He sits up and threads a hand through his hair. It’s sticking up every which way. I want to thread my hands through those blond locks. Are they as soft as they appear? Will he growl if I tug on the ends?
I mentally slap myself upside the head. What is up with you, Scarlett? Weston isn’t interested. And he’s sick.
“How long was I out?” He rubs a hand over his throat. “Did I swallow a frog?”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t feed you any frogs. They need to be fresh to taste any good, and all the croaking before you hack them up drives me bananas.”
“Scarlett Harris, you’re a surprise.”
“No surprise here.” I stand. “What you see is what you get.”
“A cute girl who loves kitties?”
I scowl. “I’ll have you know this isn’t any old kitty. This is Hello Kitty. And she’s not a kitty. She’s a little girl.”
“A little girl? She has whiskers and kitty ears.”
I’m not arguing with him about Hello Kitty. I start toward the kitchen. “Do you want tea or broth?”
“Broth?”
“Tea it is.” I quickly make him a cup of tea and bring it to him.
He takes a sip and winces. “What is this?”
“It’s tea.”
“I’ve never tasted tea like this before.”
“It’s green tea from Japan.”
“Japan?”
I sit on the chair facing the sofa. “You have heard of Japan, haven’t you? The land of the rising sun. Sushi. Anime. Geishas. Sumo wrestling. Any of these ringing a bell?”
“Smart ass. I know the country of Japan. I was surprised you had tea from there is all.”
I shrug. “I travel there often for my work.”
“Wow. Cool.”
Cool? I nearly fall off my chair in surprise. My family doesn’t think my traveling is cool. They think I’m putting on airs and should remember where I come from. Can’t I remember where I come from and enjoy travelling? The two aren’t mutually exclusive. But try convincing my mom and dad.
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a translator. I translate Japanese into English.”
His jaw drops. “Japanese?”
“Yes. Japanese.”
Here it comes. He’s going to make fun of me the way my family does. The way he did in high school.
“Holy cow. You always were super smart.”
My brow wrinkles. “You didn’t remember me yesterday.”
“The memories are coming back.” He tries the tea again. “It’s kind of good once you get used to it.”
“You don’t have to drink it. But I find it soothes my throat and thought it might help.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. Now, tell me all about this job of yours. Do you travel to Japan to interpret often?”
“I’m a translator, not an interpreter.”
“What’s the difference?” He sets down his tea and settles in. As if he’s actually interested in what I have to say.
“An interpreter translates speech. A translator usually works on documents.”
“Makes sense. And you travel to Japan to meet clients?”
“Mostly. But also, because it helps to keep my language skills sharp. I love Japan. The food, the organization, the cleanliness.” I sigh.
“Why don’t you move there?”
I wrinkle my nose and my glasses fall down. I push them back up. “It’s super expensive. And really far away. I probably wouldn’t ever see my family again if I moved. They’d never visit me.”
“They wouldn’t? Why not?”
I glance away. I could lie and say Mom is afraid of flying but I hate lying.
“My parents aren’t exactly happy with my choices in life.”
He barks out a laugh and I glare at him. “Sorry. I thought you were joking.”
“Why would you think I’m joking?”
“Because it makes no sense. How can your parents not be happy with your choice of career? You must make decent money if you’re traveling back and forth to Japan often. And knowing how smart you are, you’re probably one of the most wanted translators in the US.”
“One of the?”
He grins. “Okay. You’re the most wanted translator.” He sobers. “I’m serious. They should be proud of you and support you the way parents do.”
“You and I had very different parents.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Do I? To my surprise, I actually do. It would be nice if someone could understand why my relationship with my family is strained. I’m tired of hearing ‘but they’re your family’. As if being family is an excuse to behave however you want.
I blow out a breath. “My parents never supported my academic endeavors. Whenever I got an A on a test, they’d claim I was ‘putting on airs’.” I drop my voice and imitate my dad, “What good is getting straight As in school when you’re going to be a farmer’s wife anyway?”
“A farmer’s wife?”
“Yep. My parents are farmers. It’s the only thing they know. Which is fine. There’s nothing wrong with being a farmer. It’s an honest profession and it’s critical to the survival of the human race. I can’t deny it’s important. But I have no interest in standing in a foot of water to harvest cranberries or shearing sheep or…” I shudder, “milking sheep.”
“I’m with you on the milking sheep thing. Ask me about the time my best friend and I decided we needed sheep’s milk to get over a hangover while we were still drunk.”
I smile. “Pass.”
“Is this why you fled Smuggler’s Hideaway? To get away from your parents?”
I feel my cheeks warm. Fleeing sounds bad. As if I was accused of a crime and ran off before I could get convicted.
“I couldn’t stay here and be subjected to their judgmental views all the time. It’s sad since I could literally work from anywhere in the world. Assuming the internet is working.”
“The cell towers are still down?”
I nod. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours and they’re still not working.”
“More than twenty-four hours? How long did I sleep?”
“You’ve been asleep for a day.”
“Wow.” He throws off the blanket. “I should probably get to work on digging out the car.”
I motion to the window. “It’s been snowing the entire time. I doubt you’ll have much luck.”
“Crap. Guess I’m stuck here.”
“Be nice.” I wag my finger at him. “Or I’ll reduce your rations to bread and water.”
“Bread and water?” He rubs his stomach. “I’d settle for prison gruel at this point.”
“I guess I’ll eat the ramen soup I made for us and prepare you some gruel.”
“Ramen soup?” His nose wrinkles. “The stuff we ate in college?”
“You poor peasant. My ramen soup is not anywhere near to what you ate in college. It’s a culinary masterpiece.”
“Considering how good you made canned chicken noodle soup taste, I can’t wait. What can I do? Set the table? Do the dishes?”
“You’re going to help?” Dad doesn’t help Mom inside the house since it’s ‘women’s work’.
“Of course. You’ve been nursing me for the past day. It’s the least I can do.”
I wag a finger at him. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not putting on some skimpy nurse’s outfit.”
“A man can hope, can’t he?”
I snort. As if a man like Weston Milton would ever be interested in the nerdy bookworm.