22. Chapter 22
Dean
The prince’s kingdom was carried out in a truck. He was not permitted to help.
The following Monday, I stand outside my grandparents’ house and watch junk haulers remove all their things.
The beds, the couches, my grandma’s kitchen supplies. Everything they owned, all going.
I offered to help carry things out because it would give me something to do, but was told for insurance reasons I couldn’t.
So, I just have to stand here and watch them empty the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home.
I think the indigestion is back.
“Today’s the day, huh?” Wendell asks when he finds me on the porch.
“Yep,” I tell him.
“And then it goes up for sale?”
I just nod.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on the place all these years,” I tell him after we watch two men carry a floral-upholstered couch out to the truck.
“It was a pleasure,” says Wendell. “Vivian and Robert were great people.”
“They were,” I say, watching another guy carry out an armful of clothes still hanging from hangers.
I don’t really need to be here. It would probably be easier if I weren’t. I could be back at the inn, packing to leave tomorrow, but I felt like I needed to see this through.
Maybe it’s a goodbye of sorts. It feels like one.
Yep. Definitely indigestion.
Rosie offered to come with me, but all her guests checked out yesterday, and she needed to clean the inn before more guests arrived on Tuesday. Then she got a last-minute booking for a honeymoon night in the Sleeping Beauty room tonight, so she’s been making that room extra special.
She said one of the Walkers made the reservation, which means it could be a prank, but they paid in advance, so she’s preparing it just in case.
She hasn’t seemed like herself since Saturday night. She’s been a little quiet for Rosie—not one ramble—and when I asked her about it, she blamed a headache that won’t go away.
“Well,” Wendell says, holding out a hand, and I take it. “I guess this is goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Wendell. Thanks again.”
When the truck has left and everything is gone, I take a walk through the house.
Without my grandparents’ things, it’s just a shell. All that’s left is dust, cobwebs, and faint outlines where family photos used to hang.
He’ll know what to do.
I still don’t know if this is what she meant. And since she never showed up as a ghost to tell me, I’ll just have to hope this was it.
When I get back to the inn later that evening, Rosie looks exhausted. There are shadows under her eyes, and the messy bun from this morning has mostly come undone, half her hair spilling out of it.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, watching her put some rose petals on the bed. If this really is a prank from the Walkers, I might have a few words for them.
“No, thanks,” she says. “I’m just about done.”
“I’ll go make dinner then,” I say.
“Okay, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m not very hungry.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. This is the first time Rosie has ever turned down dinner.
“Yeah.” She gives me a hollow smile. “I’ve eaten a bunch of junk, that’s all. In between cleaning the rooms. I haven’t had a minute to sit down.”
I want to tell her to rest and I’ll take care of it, but it’s not my place, and Rosie is fully capable of taking care of herself.
It’s after ten when the guests finally show up for the room. Rosie was about to lock up and go to bed, half laughing about it and wondering why they would pay for a room and have her set it up if no one was coming.
She shows the couple to the Sleeping Beauty room while I pack up my stuff in Snow White.
I figure she’s gone to bed when I come downstairs later to grab a phone charger I left in the kitchen, but instead I find her out cold on the couch in the front room.
Strange that she’d crash there, but this is Rosie. She probably thought she could take a quick break and ended up out cold.
Knowing that she’d hate it if one of her guests found her here, I walk over to the couch and touch her shoulder.
“Rosie?”
She mumbles something but then falls back asleep.
“Rosie,” I say again, shaking her lightly.
But there’s no waking this woman.
I try again, touching her face this time, but when I do, her skin is hot, and when I press the back of my hand to her forehead, it feels like it’s on fire.
She’s sick. The headache, the exhaustion, not wanting dinner—I should have figured it out sooner.
“Rosie,” I say, trying to wake her again. I need to get her into her bed and then find something to help with the fever.
“Hmm?” she asks, her eyes fluttering open. “Dean?”
“You’re burning up,” I tell her. “I need to get you to your room.”
“Huh?” she tries to sit up but then closes her eyes like the room is swaying and falls back on the couch.
So, I do the only thing I can. I slip one arm under her knees and the other around her back, then lift her against my chest and carry her through the kitchen and toward her room.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her words sounding slightly slurred as I bring her into her small living space.
“Taking you to your bed,” I say, laying her gently on top of the unmade bed.
“I feel awful,” she says, as I carefully remove her shoes.
She starts shivering even though her skin is still burning hot. I quickly pull the blankets over her and tuck them around her.
I go to her bathroom to see if I can find medicine or a thermometer. Her drawers and the cabinet under the sink come up empty of anything useful.
Then I remember there’s a first aid kit in the cabinet where all the spices are, so I hurry and grab it.
It has one of those digital thermometers I have no idea how to use, so I Google the directions. When I finally figure it out, I take her temperature twice because the number can’t possibly be right. 103.2 degrees.
A memory of my mom flashes through my mind.
I came home sick after my freshman year of college with a fever around the same temperature, and she panicked.
She stayed home from work for a few days, brought me medicine and water, and checked my temperature constantly.
It’s one of the few memories I have of her hovering over me like that.
I take Rosie’s temperature again. 103.3 now.
Okay. I have no idea what I’m doing.
“Rosie,” I say. She opens her eyes, but her gaze is unfocused. “Do you have anything here for a fever?”
“I . . .” Her eyes drift shut before opening again. “I don’t . . .”
“I think I need to take you to urgent care.”
“No.” The word comes out a little stronger. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” I tell her. “You have a high fever.”
She closes her eyes again, and I stand there for a second trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do. Then I remember her dad is a PA. Someone who’ll actually know what he’s doing.
I find Rosie’s phone in the pocket of her overalls, pull up her dad’s number, and call. It’s nearly midnight, so I hope I don’t alarm him too much.
He answers after two rings.
“Rosie?” he asks, concern in his voice.
“It’s Dean, Mr. Harper,” I say.
“Dean? What’s going on?”
“Rosie has a fever,” I say. “It’s 103.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door of the inn. Rosie’s dad is standing there with a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder, and I let him in before following him back to her room.
“Dad?” Rosie asks as he sits on the edge of the bed, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.
“Hey, Rosebud,” he says.
I stand out of the way as Daryl gets to work.
He grabs the thermometer I used from the side table, takes her temperature again, and then checks her pulse.
“How long have you felt like this?” he asks.
“I’m . . . fine,” she says. “I just need sleep.”
“Is your throat sore? Body aches?”
“Everything aches,” she mumbles.
He nods, like he knows exactly what he’s dealing with here.
“Dean, can you bring me a glass of water?”
Twenty minutes later, after he’s gotten her to drink some water and take something he brought to help with the fever, he tucks the covers around her again.
He grabs the bag he brought, and I follow him to the kitchen.
“Is she okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, setting his bag on the table. “Looks like the flu to me. She needs to sleep and make sure she gets fluids for the next few days.”
He pulls a couple of bottles of electrolyte drinks out of the bag and sets them on the counter.
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Call me if her temperature goes any higher. I’ll be by in the morning to check on her.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
What I don’t say is that I have a bag half packed upstairs to leave tomorrow.
I did the math while I watched Rosie’s dad care for her. She’s got guests arriving to stay at the inn, and no one else who knows how to run this place.
I need to make a call in the morning.
I don’t have to delay the Manhattan contract. The next morning, when I make the call, I tell the executives that I can start on schedule, just not in person, and they agree to let me do the first week over video.
I came up with the idea sometime during the night while trying to sleep on Rosie’s too-small couch, where I could keep an eye on her.
Pushing the contract back another week meant risking losing it altogether, which I don’t want to do.
But I can’t leave Rosie. Not when she’s this sick.
Not when the inn still needs someone to keep things running.
So, I was grateful for the compromise. And a little surprised at how easily they agreed to it.
Daryl stops by a little after nine.
“Her fever is down. Have you been able to get her to drink anything?” he asks, leaning against the kitchen island after checking on her.
I nod. “She drank a couple glasses of water.”
Although she fought me on it. The medicine her dad gave her must have helped, because when I got her awake enough to drink something, she was alert enough to tell me to go back to my room and that she was fine by herself.
She wasn’t, though. She nearly passed out on the way to the bathroom and later spilled half a glass of water down the front of her overalls, which finally convinced her to change into pajamas.
I stayed put on that couch. The crick in my neck this morning is proof.
“Good,” her dad says. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her.”
“No problem,” I say.
After he leaves, I clean up the Sleeping Beauty room, changing the sheets and cleaning the bathroom. Then I wash towels and make sure the other rooms are ready for the guests checking in today.
Rosie tries to get up twice, telling me she needs to get the inn ready, but I tell her I’ve got it handled and take her back to bed, where she falls right back to sleep.
Her dad must have told her siblings, because Dominic stops by that afternoon after both sets of guests have checked in, and Emma brings soup later that night.
I heat up some for her, and she manages to eat a few bites before handing me the bowl back, which I’m calling a win.
“Thank you, Dean,” she says after I’ve taken the bowl to the kitchen and brought her back some of the electrolyte drink her dad left for her.
“You’re welcome.”
She takes a sip, her eyes looking droopy again. “Why are you here, though? You’re supposed to be in Manhattan.”
“I’ll stay until you’re better,” I say.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be better,” she says. “This could be the end.”
I smile. At least she’s sounding more like herself.
I sleep on her couch again that night, checking her fever, which spikes again, and making her drink more water.
The next morning, I give some tips to a couple staying in the Rapunzel room who are looking for a place to eat breakfast, and tell the other couple the best places to still see the changing leaves.
Then I have my first video meeting with the company in Manhattan. It goes better than I’d hoped for.
Between the other client meetings, I check on Rosie, let her argue with me about how she can take care of herself, and still manage to make sure everything at the inn is running smoothly.
Tonight I’ll sleep on an uncomfortable couch again, while making sure a stubborn woman gets enough sleep and fluids so she can get better.
And try not to think about how easy it all feels.