He nods. “Yeah, that’s the great thing about cold medicine,” he says, grabbing a bottle and doling out a dose for me. “Even if it doesn’t do everything you want it to, it’s the closest thing we’ve got to a wormhole that spits you out on the other side of a cold.”
“I don’t have a cold.”
He holds the plastic cup up out. “Drink up, gorgeous.”
He waits for me to knock it back before taking the cup into the bathroom and washing it out.
And then he melds so easily back into my bed that it seems kind of like he belongs there, his hands running all across my skin, pushing damp hair out of my face and tugging me down under the covers with him.
“You should go. You’re going to get sick,” I tell him, angling the hotbed of germs that is my face away from him.
“Was that your evil plan all along? Pretend like you need me just long enough to send me out in the worst part of the storm?”
I shake my head. “God, I forgot about the storm,” I say as wind whistles outside and the house creaks. “You should stay on the couch. So you don’t get sick.”
His hands skate along my arms and find my hands, squeezing them between us as he grins. “How would I get sick? I don’t see any sick people around here.”
I huff, sniffling and clearing my throat as I turn away from him. “The hurricane makes people sick.”
“But not you, of course. You’re not sick.”
“No. But you will be if you hang around me.” I pause. “I mean, the hurricane.”
He winds an arm around my waist, pulling my ass back against him.
And I give up the joke as I reach for another tissue. “Ryder, seriously. I don’t want you to get sick. I’ve been medicated. I’m not an ice cube anymore. Take care of yourself now.”
“Well maybe I’m cold and needyouto warmmeup. Besides, I bought every preventative medicine on the shelves, too. I’m so full of vitamins they’re going to start leaking out of my skin. And honestly, I’m not sure keepingmy distancenowwill make any difference. I’ve already taken the brunt of your germs.”
“Ryder, you’re knowingly hanging out in a cesspool. A bad one.”
He shrugs. “I’d rather hang out in a cesspool of bad germs than weather the storm without you.”
I twist around to face him, and without missing a beat, his hands brush my hair out of my face again, his expression soft as his eyes dart around my face. “Why?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve asked me that question before.”
“Answer it again.”
He sighs, one hand coming to rest on the skin of my waist where my shirt has ridden up. “Because I like you, Evie. And I really want you to get better so I can actually do something about it.”
25
RYDER
Ispend three days in bed with Eve while she recovers, the storm raging outside. Although I hate that she’s sick, Idon’thate that we have this time together. Because while there are multiple times I want to kiss her and tug her underneath me, I grab onto the little nuggets of knowledge I learn about her that I’d otherwise never know.
Like how when she was little, her grandmother would jokingly put a dot of moisturizer on both their noses for a fast recovery—and it wasn’t until a few years ago that she realized her grandmother was just making sure her nose didn’t get too dry. Or that she loves the feeling of thunder because it’s like a reminder that we’re all just little gremlins taking up space in mother nature’s world. That sometimes she feels like she’s not up to the task of taking care of the sunflower farm because she feels like the person who does that has to behappyall the time, and that she wouldn’t consider herself asadperson, but one with a wide range of emotions that are not easily expressed through flowers.
I learn that she likes sleeping with one foot outside the covers. That she thinks snacking is more fun when you canhave one bite of a million different things, rather than all the bites of one thing. That she knows exactly what’s happening inSchitt’s Creekeven when you think she’s not paying attention whatsoever. That she melts into a little puddle the second anyone does something for her, despite insisting that she can do it all herself.
That she shows love with glares and goading, and that the second she knocks you with her elbow, it’s a stamp of approval on your general existence.
I spend three days in bed with Evie Harper, and by the time I wake not to a sneeze or a sniffle, but her gentle smile, wide eyes watching me, I feel like I’ve learned all of the little things you learn about someone when you’ve found your person and they’ve found theirs too.
“You snore,” she accuses, her voice soft.
“So do you.”
