23. Chapter 23
Rosie
The princess came down with the flu. She was, as expected, a terrible patient.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in this bed. A day? A week? A year?
It feels like an eternity since I could function like a real person.
Oh, how I miss my health. Those were the good old days.
Last night, I woke up soaked and freezing in my bed. And a fairy came and changed my sheets. And tucked me back in.
That’s what I’m telling myself. Not that Dean has been sleeping on the couch in my room and has been waking me up to check my temperature and forcing me to drink and eat.
Nope. I maintain it’s been a magical fairy making sure I’m okay.
Because Dean is supposed to be in Manhattan. Not taking care of me and the inn.
I have words I’d like to say to him. I’ve had many fever-induced dreams about it. Mostly variations of Why are you still here? and You’re supposed to be in Manhattan. There may also have been one or two involving Don’t ever leave me, but I’m blaming the fever for those.
“Hey,” he says, his hand pressing lightly against my forehead. “You’re warm again.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
I try to sit up, and the world spins. I’m not fine. He shakes his head, his lips pulled straight.
“The straight line of disapproval,” I say, but it comes out groggy-sounding.
He chuckles. “You need to eat something.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I kind of am right now.”
“Fine,” I say.
He helps prop me up on some pillows and then hands me a bowl of chicken soup. Soup I’m pretty sure Emma brought last night. Bless Emma. I don’t know for sure if it was her. Everything seems hazy right now. Like I’m in a dream sequence.
Dean takes the bowl away when I’ve eaten half and can’t possibly eat any more. Then he brings me some medicine and water and helps me take it.
“You’re a very handsome magical fairy,” I say as I snuggle into the pillow and he tucks the covers in around me.
He laughs softly. Then I feel a quick brush of lips on my forehead before the door clicks shut, and I drift off again.
The next day I take a shower. And I feel like a new woman, like I’ve turned a corner and am through the worst of whatever I have.
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard both my dad and Dean use the word flu. Which is ridiculous because I don’t get the flu. I haven’t had it in years.
I think it’s probably the plague. That makes much more sense.
“Rosie?” Dean asks from outside my bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m . . . fine.”
I pick up my brush and try to work it through my wet hair, but even lifting my arm feels harder than it should. By the time I get halfway through one side, my arm is shaking.
Okay, so I’m not fine. Because all of a sudden, my limbs feel heavy and the floor shifts under my feet.
“Whoa,” I say.
“Rosie?” Dean’s voice sounds a little more panicked than necessary. Because I’m fine. I might just need to sit down on the floor of this bathroom.
I knock something off the counter, and it topples to the floor.
“I’m coming in,” Dean warns.
I panic that he’s going to see me naked but then remember that I put a robe on.
He opens the door to find me holding onto the counter for dear life.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” he says, putting an arm around my waist and guiding me back to the bed.
“I smelled like death, and you know that,” I tell him.
He chuckles, walking me slowly to the bed. A bed he made up with fresh sheets while I was in the shower.
“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t get a chance to brush my hair. It’ll be all tangled if I don’t.”
I don’t think he’s listening. He helps me get back into bed as chills work their way down my body. I roll over to my side, my back toward him as he tucks me in.
“I need to brush . . . my hair,” I say as my teeth rattle.
“Hold on,” he tells me.
A few seconds later, I feel bristles run lightly through my hair.
Dean takes his time, carefully working through the tangles, and with every slow pass of the brush, I feel myself relax a little more.
It feels amazing. Like the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.
I can’t remember the last time someone brushed my hair like this.
I never want my magical fairy to leave.
Friday morning, I wake up and realize I can sit up without getting dizzy, my limbs no longer feel like they’re filled with wet cement, and I can actually make it to the bathroom on my own. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. Which is both good and bad.
Good, because I think I’m through the worst of it; bad, because I am absolutely mortified.
Dean took care of me.
For the past four days I haven’t been able to do anything for myself, and Dean did it all. He slept in the room, gave me medicine, took care of the inn, managed the guests . . . brushed my hair.
Oh, gosh. He brushed my hair.
And I was just useless. A bump on a log. A sack of potatoes. A screen door on a submarine.
I think I’ve made my point.
I don’t know all I said to him, because I was half out of my mind. But I think at one point I called him my magical fairy.
It’s too bad this flu couldn’t have put me out of my misery. It would have saved me from this embarrassment I’m feeling.
“You’re awake,” he says when he comes into my room, looking freshly showered, the scruff on his face slightly longer than normal. He smells like soap and something woodsy. And maybe Christmas morning. And puppies. And world peace. Basically, everything good.
I might not have turned a corner after all.
“Yes, I’m alive,” I tell him.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I bob my head back and forth. The movement makes me feel lightheaded. “A little,” I say.
“Be right back.”
I prop myself up in bed, and a few minutes later, Dean brings me a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. It’s not the same one I’ve had the past couple of days, the one Emma brought over.
“Did you make more soup?” I ask him.
He shrugs a shoulder. “We ran out of the other one.”
I take a bite and moan. The deep flavor of the broth, the soft noodles, and the tender pieces of chicken taste amazing.
“This is the best chicken soup I’ve ever had,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I’m sure.”
“I’m being serious.”
I take another bite, feeling so much better than I have in days. And so grateful for this man sitting at the end of my bed.
I owe him so much. I’ve quit trying to figure out how to pay him back. I don’t think I ever can.
“You’re supposed to be in Manhattan,” I say once I’ve eaten every bite and set the empty bowl on my side table.
“I worked it out,” he says.
“So, the job . . . the contract . . . it’s fine?”
“Totally fine,” he says. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’ve been getting them started from here, actually. Doing it over video.”
Relief runs through me. I was afraid to ask him. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it if he’d lost that job because of me.
And yes, I know he’s a grown adult and can make his own choices, and he didn’t have to stay. I know all of that. Even so, I would have felt terrible if he lost his job. I would have had to bring out the words I had for him. The fever-induced ones.
“So, wait,” I say, clasping my hands in my lap. “You’ve been running the inn, taking care of me, and starting your next contract?”
He only nods.
“Oh, and the farm,” I say, remembering the actual reason Dean came to town—not to play house with me. “You’re also selling a farm. Are you . . . Superman?”
I’m only half joking.
“No,” he laughs, leaning back on one hand. “I’ve made it work.”
“Because you’re superhuman,” I say.
He just shakes his head at me.
“Is the farm up for sale?” I ask.
“It is,” he says. “The listing went up on Wednesday.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
His eyes drop for a second before coming back to mine. “I don’t know,” he says. “Not sure I made the right decision.”
This is the first time I’ve ever heard him doubt a decision he’s made.
“What was the other decision?”
“There really wasn’t one,” he says.
Right. Because what else would someone do with a burned apple orchard?
“What will you do when it sells? Buy yourself a place somewhere?”
I don’t know if I want to hear the answer to that. Maybe it’s the chicken soup or the remnants of the flu meds, but I ask it anyway.
I swear, if he tells me he’s going to put it in the bank and sit on it and not do something for himself, I’m going to get out of this bed and punch him.
Lightly, on the arm. I’m not a savage.
Dean’s quiet, like he’s deciding how he wants to answer it or whether he wants to at all.
“I’m going to use the money to help my mom,” he finally says.
“Oh?”
He lets out a breath. “The plan is to put it in a trust, so she can use it as needed, and hopefully husband number three won’t figure out a way to take it from her.”
“Oh,” I say, filling in the parts he’s left out.
Well, crap.
A very small part of me hoped Dean somehow wouldn’t sell the farm. I never pictured him living there, exactly. Maybe he’d rent it out, or keep it for some reason that I hadn’t thought of yet.
I knew it was unrealistic. But selling it feels so final. Once the farm is gone, there’s nothing left tying him to this town.
And now I can’t even want that.
Because if Dean changes his mind and keeps the farm, his mom gets nothing. After everything he’s told me about her, I think he wants to make sure she finally has something that’s hers.
So, I can’t wish that he’d keep the farm. Not anymore.
Strangely, it’s almost a relief to let that hope go. His mom needs this more than I need some reason for Dean to come back here.
I’d love it if Dean could be selfish just for once. But then, if he were, I don’t know if I’d have fallen for him like I did.
Because I’m definitely in love with Dean Alden. And it didn’t take him coming to my aid while I was sick. No, I knew before that. I just didn’t want to admit it.
I want to tell him. Maybe we could try. He could visit when he’s between jobs. We could talk on the phone.
But he hasn’t said anything about what happens after he leaves. He hasn’t given me any reason to think he wants there to be an after. For all I know, I’m the only one trying to turn the past six weeks into something bigger than it was.
So, I’ll keep it to myself.