His building, for lack of a better word, is in averysketchy part of town. It’s not a place I generally brave solo as a woman, especially not in the dark, but the sun has already set by the time I get there, so I have no choice.
I double-click the lock on the Beetle and walk inside, juggling the soup, a book I picked up for him while I was working in the library the other day, and my bag.
Inside the dingy lobby, there’s a group of men loitering, and as I pass by, they pause, their eyes drifting over me from head to toe, leering at me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Hastily, I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor and all but sprint to Wilder’s apartment.
I don’t understand why he lives in a place like this. The building is falling apart, and it feels like the last place a top hockey star would live. And he’s a celebrity… sort of?
I mean, I don’t know a ton about hockey, but I’m assuming professional hockey players make a ton on their contracts? Surely enough to find a place better than this?
There are a hundred questions running through my head as I knock on his door.
A minute or so passes, and he still hasn’t answered, so I knock again, this time louder, but it’s quiet on the other side of the door, and my worry ramps up another level.
My fist is lifted to knock for the third time when the front door suddenly wrenches open, and Wilder appears, squinting at me through one eye, his hair standing in a hundred different directions, dark circles shadowing beneath his eyes.
He’s still, without a doubt, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, even though right now he looksterrible.
“Maisie?” His voice is scratchy, hoarse, like he’s been sleeping. “What are you doing here?”
I lift the large plastic container. “You said you were sick, so, uh, I brought you some soup?”
I’m suddenly feeling like this might be the worst idea I’ve ever had because of how he’s just staring at me blankly.
“You brought me… soup?” he finally says after a beat of excruciating silence.
I nod. “I brought you soup.”
I realize that we’re just repeating the same stupid line back to each other, but that train of thought is lost when Wilder starts coughing, a deep, ragged hacking noise that immediately makes alarm shoot through me.
Oh my God, he sounds horrible.
Even worse than he looks.
“Wilder,” I murmur as I reach out and press my fingers against his forehead. His skin is pale and clammy, but he’s hot to the touch. “God, you’re burning up. Come on.”
I step past him into the apartment, and he follows behind me, slamming the door shut.
“You need to go home, Maisie. You don’t need to catch this shit,” he mutters, and the words sound weak. “I feel like I got hit by a goddamn truck.”
To nail the point home, another coughing fit hits him hard, and once it’s done, there’s a sheen of sweat coating his forehead that’s causing his dark hair to start to curl, his apparent fever plastering it against his skin.
I shoot him a look and set the soup and my bag onto his kitchen counter. “I have two little brothers. My immune system is like Fort Knox at this point. Plus, no offense… but you look like shit.”
A low chuckle pushes past his lips, and his hand flies to his side, clutching his ribs. “Fuck, don’t do that. My ribs hurt from coughing.”
“Sorry.” My nose wrinkles. “But no, I’m not leaving. Pick your bossy, commanding act back up when you don’t look like death’s knocking at your door, ’kay?”
Even with that, he looks like he still wants to argue, but in the end, he just huffs out a grunt, which I assume is his form of obliging me before he walks to the mattress on the floor and flops down onto it.
I don’t know where anything in his apartment is, but judging by the three spoons, two forks, and a can opener that I found in two of the drawers… I don’t have much to work with.
I put the soup in the microwave, then walk over to Wilder.
His eyes are closed, and he’s got his hood pulled up over his head, his fingers laced over his stomach.
I lean down, sweeping my fingers over his forehead. “Hey, you need something for the fever. Where’s your medicine?”
