There was no telling how long I’d be down for or how severe this flare-up would be. I hated not knowing. I loathed not being able to do it all myself. Having a chronic illness was an absolute mindfuck.
My naked skin pebbles as a cool breeze rustles the curtains on my open bedroom window. I hike my towel up higher but still don’t bother to get dressed yet. I have an hour before I need to be presentable. And by presentable, I simply mean clean jeans and a T-shirt. I can afford to close my eyes and rest for a few minutes like my traitorous body is demanding.
I startle awake. My room is bathed in soft oranges and pinks as the dim sunlight peeks through my curtains. The distinct sound of a pot banging has me prying myself from my bed.
I wince at the twinge of achy joints and sore muscles, shivering as the trees outside rustle in the wind. I glance down and realize I’m still not dressed; my towel lays uselessly on top of my olive-green comforter and my nipples are tight from the cool breeze still blowing through my open window.
It better be Wes out in the kitchen because if it’s a pot-stealing burglar, they’ll get away with the whole kitchen set by the time I find my clothes and get dressed.
I dig through the clean clothes in my laundry basket and find some jeans to wear and a T-shirt with a picture of a popsicle on it that saysI’m a real treat.
My hair is wild from falling asleep with it wet, so I just throw it up into a sloppy bun. Not the cute kind, but the haphazard kind, frizzy and partially falling out. My hair doesn’t do “cute messy bun” without something in the way of hair product. My wild waves were a curse no matter how much Allie swears she wishes her hair could look like mine. I wasn’t about to spend extra time on my hair when Wes was whistling in my kitchen, probably attempting to burn my house down.
I wander down the hall, wishing my nap had left me feeling refreshed instead of like I’d been run over by a garbage truck. “You’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”
Wes grunts but doesn’t spare me a glance. His cheeks are stained red, probably from the steam coming from whatever he’s got simmering on the stove.
How long has he been in my house while I slept in the next room naked?
“I didn’t know you’d be asleep at seven o’clock,” he mumbles.
“I didn’t mean to be.” I shuffle over to my medicine cabinet and snag some pain relievers to help with the achiness I’m feeling.
“You okay?” Wes asks, eyes flickering toward the pills in my hand as I fill up a glass of water.
“I’m fine. Just have a headache.”
A deep furrow forms in the middle of his forehead, and a small piece of me wants to smooth away the worry with my thumb. It’s a silly notion that I shake off as I down the glass of water.
“Do you want me to go?” he questions.
“And leave me without dinner? You’re not getting out of your promise that easily.”
“But if you don’t feel good—”
I hold up a hand to halt his excuses.
“You promised me dinner, city boy. Now get to work. I’m hungry.”
He smirks and adds some butter to the skillet. “Suit yourself.”
“What are you making?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
He stiffens briefly at my proximity, and I revel in his momentary discomfort. My chest is pressed against his arm, and the warmth of his body radiates through me, stirring up dormant desires.
He spins toward me and his gaze lingers on my mouth briefly before he pokes me in the rib with his index finger, making me yelp. He chuckles, snapping the towel he had hanging over his shoulder at my thigh. “Go sit down. I don’t need you breathing down my neck. I’m trying to get this recipe right.”
“It’s my house. I can do what I want. Besides, how will I know if you’re poisoning me if I don’t watch you every step of the way?”
I peek around him and see a weathered-looking paper spread out on my countertop, but he steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Sit, Red.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Quit acting so bitchy then.”
My ears burn and I can feel color flooding my face in indignation. I’m about to start yelling when I see his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I’m kidding. Calm down.”
