“I’m going to go check on the soup.”
The smell of chicken and herbs grows stronger as he walks toward the kitchen.
He’s almost out of the room when I whisper, “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he says quietly.
He says it like he means it.
And for the first time, I can’t bring myself to convince him otherwise.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Scottie
My fever dips late Monday afternoon but spikes again Monday night. Lucas says this is common. The pain relievers are helping, but Lucas isn’t happy that they’re only getting me down to 100.2, even alternating.
“If you tell me it’s not a big deal one more time, I’ll throw you in my truck and take you to the hospital,” he says.
“I’ll punch you if you even try,” I say through clattering teeth as I shiver on the couch. Still, I take a sip from the straw he puts in my mouth.
“I’m more afraid of Pinto punching me.” He nods toward where my cat has been perched on top of my bookshelf all day. “If your fever doesn’t break tomorrow, I’m taking you in, regardless. A fever this high for that many days is dangerous.”
In my head, I say, “I like you when you’re bossy,” but the words thankfully don’t make it out of my mouth. I just make a mumbling sound, and Lucas tucks a blanket around me.
I’m vaguely aware of him sitting in my armchair when I fall asleep. Through the night I drift in and out of consciousness—dreaming of buzzing, alarms, cool metal against my forehead, and a straw pushed between my lips with something nasty in it.
But they’re nothing more than fever dreams. I didn’t say goodbye to Lucas, but there’s no way he stayed. He did his time. Anyone would have gone home after yesterday.
That effort wouldn’t be worth it.
Hours later, predawn light peeks through my closed curtains just enough to wake me. I’m exhausted, battered, and covered in sweat, but I feel a million times better. I take a deep breath, reveling in the feeling of moving without every inch of me hurting. Then I look around the room and play my favorite game: where’s Pinto? I find him almost immediately sitting under a heating vent.
My eyes keep scanning the room, though, my throat pinched with nerves I’m trying to pretend don’t exist. Truth is, I’m nervous to look at the armchair.
Scared by how much I want him to still be here.
Just check, I tell myself.Rip off the Band-Aid!
My eyes drift to the chair before I can stop them.
Empty.
My heart seems to dry out. It’s stupid to be disappointed. He went above and beyond yesterday. Knowing him, he probably even sent a text telling me when he’ll be back.
Ifhe’ll be back?—
Whoosh.
A flush from the hallway bathroom makes me hiccup with relief. Excitement. Gratitude.
The emotion leaks out of my eyes, and I wipe them while the sink runs. A minute later, I’m pretending to be asleep when I hear the door open. His feet pad across the hardwood, and a moment later, there’s a quiet rummaging. Then I feel thesensation of cold metal gliding from one side of my forehead to the other. Hear a soft beep. A sigh of relief.
“98.4,” he mutters. He lets out what sounds like a laugh, but it’s too full, like something’s spilling out of it. “I think your fever officially broke,” he whispers.
His fingertips skim across the top of my forehead and into my hair, a feeling that is so comforting, I almost moan. I stay still and silent, though, not wanting to spook him, not wanting him to stop.
“You are so beautiful.” He exhales the words like a sigh. Holds his hand on my face …
