22. Rose
rose
The doorbell chime is awfully cheerful when it startles me out of my nap.
Doesn’t it know some of us are dying? I shuffle up to a sitting position on the couch.
Using superhuman strength, I hobble across the living room, my muscles aching with the effort.
My back hurts so much I could cry, but I refuse to add another layer onto the humiliation I’m about to endure.
I shouldn’t have let Reed come over, but I’m weak. Not just in this sad little body that feels like it’s been run over by a flaming garbage truck, but in my heart, too. I didn’t want to be alone. And needy, pathetic woman that I am, I wanted someone to take care of me.
I’ll regret all those weaknesses in thirty seconds. I’ve still got on the pajamas I wore to bed last night, my thin yellow shorts and camisole top smothering me like a wool bodysuit. Might be the fever. I don’t know.
I work the locks, ready to ring the death knell on my relationship with Reed when he sees me.
He’ll back away, shirt collar pulled up over his nose so he doesn’t catch my germs, whatever flimsy thread of attraction he might have felt for me snipped away at seeing me ransacked by cooties, makeup-free, and bleary-eyed.
Also, I’m pretty sure I smell.
This is the perfect time to hide in bed with the covers pulled over my head, but I’d probably pass out before I got up the stairs.
Resigned to my fate, I open the door. Naturally, this man looks amazing. Jeans and a T-shirt that caresses his chest the same way my grabby hands want to. And why did he put on his baseball cap backwards? He must hate me. Handsome, sneaky man.
His eyebrows tug together as he looks me over. “Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be walking around.”
He’s the one who insisted on seeing me in this degrading state, but saying that would be rude.
His mouth takes on the softest curve. “I would deserve it, too.”
Oh. I guess I said that out loud. Might be feeling worse than I realized.
“Come on.” He lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing. I shiver at his touch, but it’s the feverish kind of chills, not the fun kind. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”
“My skin hurts.” I lay my head on his shoulder, my arms around his neck. “I feel like I’ve been pummeled by Bigfoot.”
“You’re burning up. We’ll take care of that.” He takes a step into the living room, nudging the door closed behind him with his foot. “Do you want to be in the living room or bedroom?”
I press my face against his shirt. He smells so good. Ocean Deity or whatever crisp thing they think a waterfall smells like. “Couch is easiest.”
He huffs a breath, not leaving the entryway. “Would you be more comfortable in your bed?”
So demanding, this one. “Yes. But you can’t carry me up the stairs.”
A laugh rumbles through his chest, tickling my ear. “That hurts, firefly.”
The man carries me straight up the stairs without a single wheeze or groan. It’s pretty impressive, even in my semi-lucid state. In my bedroom, he gently arranges me on my bed I left unmade when I dragged myself downstairs this morning. He pulls the sheet over me, but I kick my legs back out.
When was the last time I shaved them? Can’t remember. Don’t care.
“Too hot.”
“Where’s your medicine? You need something to bring your fever down.”
I nod over his shoulder and regret it when my neck muscles protest. “In the bathroom cupboard.”
He disappears for a minute, clomps down the stairs and back up again, returning with some Tylenol and a glass of water. I take the pills he offers and sink back down on the pillows.
“I peeked through your cupboards.” He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand resting over mine. “I can make you chicken soup. Or a stir fry, if that doesn’t sound good.”
“I don’t want you to have to do anything.” This is already bad enough. Having him cook for me and tend me? So embarrassing.
But…I bet it’d be the comforting kind of embarrassing.
He leans closer, brushing my sweaty hair from my face. I really shouldn’t have let him come over. This can’t be a good look. I’m full-on gross, and he’s looking like every coffee shop girl’s dream. Maybe just mine?
No. Probably not just mine.
“Sweetheart,” he says low, “we’re going to have a talk about this when you’re feeling better, but for now, I need you to tell me what you feel like eating.”
He pins me with his stern brown eyes, silently waiting. I’ve been told a thousand times I shouldn’t make demands. I need to be agreeable. But how am I supposed to resist when he’s demanding I demand things?
My brain’s not handling the fever so well.
“Chicken soup sounds good.”
He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Then, he leans in and kisses my forehead. “Try to rest. Call me if you need anything.”
He leaves my room, and I’m ninety-five percent convinced I’m delirious. Reed Bridger just smiled at me? And called me his girl? And gave me a forehead kiss? If it’s a hallucination, it’s a good one.
I drift in and out of uncomfortable sleep before he returns with two bowls of soup and two glasses of water on a tray. I can’t tell anymore if the urge to break down in tears is because everything from my toenails to my eyelashes hurts, or because Reed is the sweetest man in the world.
It might be that one.
“You’re really sexy with your cap that way,” I say. “It’s unfair.”
His gaze hits mine. “I’ll remember that.”
He makes room on my nightstand for the tray and helps me sit up, propping pillows behind my back. With utmost care, he passes me a bowl but doesn’t let go until he’s sure I can hold it without sloshing it over the sides. I can’t.
He sits on my bed and holds my soup bowl while I feed myself dinner he made.
Maybe this is all an illusion, and I’m still conked out on the living room couch.
Nobody’s ever done this for me before. Definitely nobody I dated.
I can’t even remember the last time my mom waited on me this way. It’s horrifyingly reassuring.
“The soup’s really good.” It’s chicken made with a wild rice mix I had stuffed away in the pantry. Better than any recipe he might have found in my notebook, too. He cooks and takes care of sickies and kisses like he invented the pastime. I don’t know how he does it.
I push my hair over my shoulder to take another bite, but it slumps back, getting in my way.
He sets aside my bowl. “Here. Let me help.”
Reed Bridger braids my hair to get it out of my face, securing it with a hair tie he snagged off my nightstand. Just casually does my hair like a freaking hero. Then he sits down again, ready to hold my soup bowl so I can keep eating. Tears are definitely on the horizon.
“You know how to braid hair?” Obviously he does, since he just did. The question falls out of my mouth anyway.
“Jovie’s not picky about who she asks to do her hair.”
I think big burly coffee shop owners who know how to braid hair are my favorite.
“You’re my favorite, too.” He lifts the soup bowl, waiting for me to take another bite.
My thoughts keep coming out as words. Maybe I should quit talking. Or quit thinking. One of them isn’t working right.
I eat as much dinner as I can stomach and take big sips from the glass of water he brought me. When I peter out on dinner, he digs into his. I arch back into the pillows, trying to get comfortable, but my body is too achy and overheated to totally relax.
Out of an abundance of experience, I have to say that Reed is a really handsome eater.
Some guys attack their food like they’re carnivores whose prey is going to get away if they don’t lunge immediately.
Others are just generally gross, and don’t care where splatters and flecks of food land.
Reed eats like a gentleman, wiping his mouth with a napkin so he doesn’t get soup in his beard.
Not a slurp to be heard. He could be on flipping Bridgerton.
He’d be the stable master all the noble ladies lust after, until he finds out he’s secretly an earl. Then he’d marry the poor maid he’s loved for years.
I smooth my hands over my flyaways, imagining my role as Sick Patient #2 on Grey’s Anatomy. She would die tragically when the new intern mixed up her meds. “I’m sorry this is such a terrible second date.”
His hand finds mine again in my lap. “I’ll take you on a better one.”
“You’re not supposed to see me like this.”
“In your jammies?” His mouth tips up. “I’m trying not to look.”
He really is, the saint.
“Not the jammies.” If I were completely healthy, I’d be at least a little mortified that I’m hanging out with him and practically hanging out, too.
This set leaves a lot of skin exposed, but since I’m pretty sure my internal organs are burning to a crisp right now, I can’t care all that much.
“You’re not supposed to let the person you’re dating see your bad side.
Definitely not your ‘one-hundred-two-degree fever’ side. ”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t know where you heard that, but I respectfully disagree. The person you’re dating is supposed to see all your sides. Otherwise, how can you know you want to be together?”
I move my head side to side on my pillow, but it’s too disorienting, and I have to stop.
“That’s not what my parents say. They remind me over and over to be as accommodating and as likable as possible.
Always be sweet. Don’t talk about my crafting hobbies, Gilmore Girls, or Mamma Mia!
Don’t mention Stardew Valley. Don’t talk about horror movies. ”
“You like horror movies?”
“No, I really hate them, but guys seem to like them, so I’m not supposed to admit it.”
“Rose.” He shifts closer, leaning in to cup my sweaty face and stroke my hair. “I say this with as much love as possible. Your parents are full of crap.”
I laugh, smiling for the first time all day. Kind of hurts, to be honest. “You might be right. Taking their advice hasn’t worked for me so far.”
I’ve been sweet and genial and accepting. I’ve molded myself to fit in with what men I dated liked. I’ve practiced having no preferences and no complaints. I’ve hidden myself away, leaving only the most “perfect” aspects front and center. I’ve still been dumped over and over.
“I don’t want you to use their advice on me.” He strokes my hair, gazing at me like I’m not literally lying on a sick bed. “Don’t second guess your wants and needs. Because newsflash, firefly—taking care of your wants and needs is my job.”
“Temporarily.” The saddest word. I hate that word.
His soft smile fades. “Temporarily. But I’m still going to give it my all.”
“Will you stay?” I whisper.
Another soft stroke over my hair. “Absolutely.”