I can’t help laughing. “I’m so sorry!” I slap my hand over my mouth. “It’s just, I was thinking exactly that. Maybe I was a doctor in my last life. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” I fish his keys out of my bag. “I’m still not letting you drive though.”
“That’s…yeah. Good idea. Better is a subjective word.”
“You look wonderful.”For the love of cat-shaped meatloaves.Foot, meet mouth. “I mean, I think what they gave you is working. You were pretty much waxy all the way here, and atthe house, your skin had this horrible pallor. Did they give you something for the fever?”
“They did. It pretty much took care of the headache from hell I was rocking. The IV helped the dizziness, even if I hate them.”
“I do too.” I shudder at the thought of needles. I’m such a wimp when it comes to them.
Before I can do something silly like put my hand on his back and guide him to the car or hug him because he looks like he’s in serious need of one, I walk quickly to the car. Then, I get it unlocked and open his door for him.
He winces at me doing all of it for him.
“Nope. Don’t frown. I like being the perfect gentleman.” Apparently, my jokes suck ass today.
He collapses into the passenger seat and heaves out the biggest sigh. “I hope I don’t make you sick. This is the worst. I’m so sorry.”
I start the car with the push button that I’ll never get used to and glide us out onto the road. It literally feels like we’re running on air and not tires.
“It could be worse. It could be a man cold. For the record, if you want chicken soup or toast or anything, I can make it. I’ll be extra careful not to burn anything down this time. You just let me know.”
He closes his eyes, looking like he’d enjoy vaporizing as much as I would have liked to do the same on the sidewalk back there. “No one’s ever made me soup before.”
It’s a good thing his eyes are closed. There’s no controlling my shock and sadness. My face is probably doing goober-worthy stuff.
Seriously, what the fuck to Warrick’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Beanbottom suck ass, and I haven’t even met them.
“That’s…”Such a travesty? So freaking sad? I, second-hand, really intensely want to kick your parents in the crotch. Both ofthem. I’ll take care of you. It’s not a problem. And not because you’re paying me, either. It’s because I want to.
I know I need to fill something in, but I just drive and let silence wrap around the car.
My face is probably further being a goober, projecting my thoughts all over the place, but I don’t have to worry about getting myself under control.
At one red light, one side-eye glance to my right confirms that Warrick is already fast asleep.
Chapter ten
Amalphia
It’s been five days, and I’m fine. The dreaded virus hasn’t reached me yet. I’m not one of those people who can’t stand getting sick or is so paranoid about it that I wash my hands endlessly, but I really hope I don’t get this.
It’s nasty.
I expected Warrick would be good to go within a couple of days, but this is day five, and he still hasn’t gone back to work. He spent most of the first few days sleeping. On day one, I expected it, but when I checked on him on day two, he was so lethargic that I almost called the clinic. He insisted he was just exhausted while I argued that I had to keep checking on him because who else was going to, and I sure as hecking hell wasn’t going to leave him for dead. Or, like, for sick.
On days three and four, he got himself out of bed, showered, and went downstairs at least. He sat on the couch with a book he didn’t read, and he put on movies he didn’t watch. He looked like a zombie.
I forced him to eat a banana and drink some water. I tried to entice him with toast, but it took him hours to force it down.
You know it’s bad when toast doesn’t cut it.
Now we’re on day five, and it’s late morning. Warrick still hasn’t made an appearance, and my finger is itching and getting trigger-happy to call the clinic.
I go out for the ingredients to make chicken soup instead. I don’t know if I can do my mom’s or Granny’s soup justice, but judging from the fact that it seems like Warrick’s parents were more like a pack of wolves than a homey mom and dad, I don’t think he’ll know the difference between good mom soup and a housekeeper’s bad attempt.
Warrick still isn’t up when I get back to the house. I throw myself into chopping potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. I cheated and bought a rotisserie chicken. I’ve never made chicken soup from scratch. A bad case of food poisoning is the last thing anyone needs right now. Or ever.
I take the chicken apart, boil it down for broth, strain that, and then add potatoes, the veg, and the ripped-up pieces of chicken.
