My dreams are full of glasses and floppy hair and strong hands and tally mark tattoos.
The next morning, I wake up in a pool of sweat with an expanse of cold sheets next to me.
Disappointment crashes into me. I’ll just shove that down to be dealt with… never.
Groaning, I sit up. My fever broke, but I still feel like shit. I could use some more pain meds for my head, and a bath sounds divine. My stomach, however, disagrees with that order of events, letting out an obnoxious growl. I’m dreading how long it’s going to take me to get to the kitchen. If someone walked in right now and told me I was hit by a bus yesterday, I would believe them.
I’m about five seconds into my pep talk when my bedroom door slowly creaks open. A shaggy-haired, glasses-wearing, jawline-that-could-cut-glass man creeps into the room carrying a tray full of something. Ben is so focused on not dropping anything that he hasn’t realized that I’m awake. He walks over to the dresser and carefully sets down what can only be described as a full feast of home remedies.
He turns toward me, practically jumping out of his skin when he sees that I’m awake. “Holy shit, Colette! You scared me!”
“I scared you… By sitting here in my bed…”
The corner of his mouth lifts, even as he continues to clutch his chest. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
I huff. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Craning my neck, I try to see what all he’s brought in. “Is that for me?”
“No, it’s for Ernest,” he deadpans. “Of course it’s for you. Sit back.”
He places the tray in front of me, and maybe my physical state is affecting my emotional state, but I think those are tears pressing at the corners of my eyes. There’s a bowl of chicken noodle soup that looks homemade, another cup of tea, an assortment of medications, a pedialyte popsicle, and plain crackers.
“You slept until midday. How are you actually feeling?” he asks, pushing my sweat-soaked hair off my brow.
“I look like shit, don’t I?” I ask, instead of answering his question.
He grins down at me. “Yeah, you do. And somehow you have the ability to make looking like shit also extremely hot. I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Gross. You should leave me to wither away in peace.”
“Not going to happen, Red. Eat. I’m going to clean up the kitchen and then we’ll get you into the bath, okay?”
A completely unfair question because he knows that I can’t say no to that. “Wait!” I call once he gets to the doorway. “Is this soup homemade?” I know for a fact that I did not have the appropriate ingredients for a full-ass chicken noodle soup.
He responds with a lopsided grin. “Eat up, Red.”
I do, and of course it’s delectable. I think one bowl of this soup could heal me from anything. Upon closer inspection, Ben used shredded chicken and a minimal amount of vegetables. The egg noodles are perfectly cooked, not long spaghetti noodles which I hate, and I think I might want to bathe in this broth.
Dammit.
When he comes back in, I’ve devoured the entire bowl, half of the crackers, and the popsicle, because logically I know that Ineed to hydrate. I feel like Oliver Twist when I offer my bowl up to him requesting more.
“Bath first, then you can have more soup.”
“Bossy.”
“You’re welcome for taking care of your pathetic ass.”
I raise my eyebrow at him. “I remember you quite liking my ass.”
He groans, taking my shoulders to guide me into the bathroom. “No more ass talk. Only very innocent, very practical touching until you feel better. Got it, Red?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm… Yeah, I need you back to your dominant self.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “Don’t like it when I let you take control?”
“Turns out I prefer a snarky, controlling woman who knows exactly what she wants.” He bends down to adjust the taps on the bath. “I live to serve,” he adds, smirking over his shoulder.
