“Quinn—” I try to warn her.
“I like you so much, I hate it.” She kicks her legs out, spreads her arms out more. “It is so hot.”
“Here, it’s time for more medicine,” I say, my guilt subsiding the rest of the way, because I’m not even kind of pushing.
She’s volunteering.
I grab the pills and coconut water. “Sit up. You need to take this.”
She makes a whine of protest, and her closed eyes somehow look even heavier. Before I can move her, she’s fallen asleep again.
“Scottie,” I say, trying to rouse her. “Quinn.” But she’s out.
When she wakes an hour later and sits up, she takes the medicine and turns on a movie while I make my dad’s famous chicken soup with the ingredients Instacart just delivered.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself:
I smile the whole time.
I’m not delusional enough to think she’ll go to sleep tonight planning to break up with Jake for me.
But you’d better believe I’ll be here when she wakes up.
CHAPTER TEN
Scottie
Lucas is conspicuously smiley.
I’m watching my favorite comfort movie—Taken(yes, the one with Liam Neeson)—hopped up on every combination of flu medicine Dr. Google approved and feeling particularlyfloatywhile Lucas’s chicken noodle soup is simmering in the kitchen.
He’s sitting on the other side of the couch from me, and every once in a while, a big grin crosses his face.
“What are you smiling about now?” I ask. “He just electrocuted a guy with a car battery.”
“It’s heartwarming.”
“It’s not heartwarming.”
“The guy is murdering half of Europe for his daughter. If that’s not heartwarming, I don’t know what is.”
With my legs stretched across the couch, I kick him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“If it’s not heartwarming, why on earth are you watching it when you’re sick?”
“Oh,” I say, nodding slowly and wishing my whole body didn’t ache to the touch. “You think I identify with the daughter. I’m Liam Neeson here.”
“You do have a particular set of skills,” he says.
We both turn back to the movie, but a few minutes later—right as Liam Neeson’s throwing someone off a balcony—he has that big smile on his face again, and I can’t help but stare.
Why is he so happy?
“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, catching me looking.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just, uh, wanted to say thanks. For the medicine. And stuff.”
He shrugs. “Of course. It was nothing.”
