Tonight, we’re getting the baby corns after I was nearly murdered by furniture polish in the shower while the house almost burned down around me. Nothing about that should make me laugh, but here I am, doing it under my breath so Amalphia doesn’t take it the wrong way and get offended.
“Let me find my phone, and we’ll get the baby corns on.”
There’s a one hundred percent chance that I am a total dork.
I leave,myface the one that’s on fire because only a total douche muffin will say something like that, and I’ve been very careful never to fall into the choch category. Alas…here we are, folks.
Here we freaking baby corny corn are.
Chapter nine
Amalphia
When Warrick stumbles home a few days later in the middle of the afternoon, I know something is off as soon as he walks into the house. I’m in the living room, doing my usual dusting of non-existent dust. I have my phone linked to the house’s surround sound, and currently, my latest audiobook is playing at full blast.
It just happens to be monster smut.
What? Don’t judge me. I like to take myself out of reality once in a while, and regular sci-fi just isn’t my jam.
It’s so loud, and Warrick is so unexpected that I don’t hear the door over the book. It’s right in the middle of someverydescriptive spice when I look up, and suddenly, there he is in all his boss slash ex’s dad glory.
“Arp!” I yelp, scrambling for my phone, which thankfully is sitting right on the coffee table. I nearly send myself sprawling over the furniture when my knees connect, and I’ll likely behobbling around the rest of the day, trying to shake off the ache, but at least I’m able to pause the audiobook.
The tension is so thick that I could melt on the spot. I’m the most hellacious shade of scarlet before I notice that Warrick is…off. He doesn’t even seem to have heard what he just blatantlyheard. He’s grey and clammy, with sweat dotted on his forehead.
“Oh!” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, that doesn’t look good at all.” I don’t useyou. I try to have some tact. That would be incorrect, anyway. Warrick is always above safe levels of attractiveness.
“It feels miserable. I haven’t puked in ten years, or maybe it’s more, but I beat that record today. Once in the bathroom at work in a toilet that was dubious at best, and the second time in a trash can in the cleaning closet when I went to find spray to sanitize everything.”
I snap my fingers, springing into action the same way my mom or granny would back when I was a kid and got a stomach bug. “Straight to bed. I’ll bring you a bucket, some water, and some soup crackers if you feel like eating them. I’ll search the medicine cabinet and see if there are any anti-nausea pills.”
Of all the things I hate getting sick with, stomach bugs are nasty. They might be over relatively fast, but he’s one hundred million percent correct when he used the word miserable.
“How do you get sick in the summer?” I ask tentatively as I follow Warrick to the kitchen. He’s ignoring my directive to go to bed, but then again, he probably doesn’t want me taking care of him. I would hate it, too, if it were the other way around.
“George’s kids went to summer camp, and apparently, the whole place just got obliterated with a virus.”
“How nice of him to share. But that seriously sucks. Those poor kids. What a horrible experience. That’s enough to scar you for life.”
“The whole workplace will probably be down soon.”
He gets a glass from the cupboard and goes to the tap to pour himself water, even though I know he keeps bottles in the fridge. I sweep past him and go straight to the cupboard where all the medicine and most of the herbal teas are stored. I have my back to him when I hear him gag, and then he’s bent over the sink, being sickloudly.
My whole body breaks out into a clammy sweat. I’m not sure I have a weak stomach, but having a sympathy tummy is definitely a thing, and right now, I want to hurl a little bit too.
I swallow it back, walk over, and put my clammy palm on his back. His black button-up shirt is soaked through, and his body heat radiates into my palm. He’s clearly running a fever.
“Whoa. Are you okay?”
He grasps the counter, panting. “Other than being completely humiliated, I’m all good.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
I pass him the towel off the stove since I just replaced it, and it’s fresh. Then, I get a bottle of water out of the fridge, find a box of medication specifically for fevers in the cupboard, and add it to the pile.
“I’ll clean this up,” he mutters weakly.
He reaches for the tap, but I dodge past him. “No way. You need to get into bed.” I crank the water on and reach for his forehead with my other hand. “You definitely have a fever, and it needs to come down before you do anything. I’ll be right up with all of this and—” I glance at the sink, cringing at the cleaning job that I can hopefully do while squeezing my eyes shut tightly.
Except, they don’t screw shut. They open wide. I get closer and really take a look. My heart does a shiver thing in my chest the same way it did when I realized what Reginald had done with those men who were coming for me. It’s pure fear that causes my cold sweat this time. “Fuck, Warrick, there’sblood.”
