“It’s only a cold,” I protest. “You don’t need to help me.”
“It’s never ‘only a cold’ with you, Liv. Youknowthat. And I can’t go through another episode like last year if we don’t have to.Especiallynow. We can’t keep the bakery’s hours limited much longer, and who knows if—” She cuts off, and Iflinch.If Farmor will make it.“You look like you’re about to fall over,” she quickly continues. “Go lie down on the couch right now.” Mom takes the bag back and turns to Hunter, dismissing me.
I don’t have the energy to complain or argue any further. And bringing up last year is a sober reminder of how quickly a stupid cold can turn into far worse for me. I do as she says and head to the couch, curling onto my side, pulling my knees into my stomach.
“She can’t have any ibuprofen or aspirin—not even if her fever spikes. She can only have 2,000 mg of Tylenol a day, so give her one pill right now and put two drops of each of these oils on a washcloth damp with cool water to put on her forehead for the headache. If you could rub some peppermint onto the back of her neck that usually helps a lot too.” My mom continues to explain her bag of tricks, things we’ve learned over the years to help me manage illness since I can’t use a lot of the traditional medicines out there. I’m only half listening, pressing my fingertips into my temples to try and make the pain abate, with my eyes squeezed shut.
But I tune back in when I hear Hunter say, “If it’s that serious, I can work remotely so I can keep an eye on her.”
“Oh,thankyou. You’re a lifesaver, Hunter.”
My stomach drops to my ankles. I groan without opening my eyes. “Mom,pleasetell me you didn’t ask him toskip workto babysit me?”
“It’s fine.” Hunter’s voice is gruff. “She didn’t ask; I offered.”
I’m baffled by his willingness to stay. He’s only kind and considerate tootherpeople, not me. Except for last week. And yesterday. And today.
“You can go, Mrs. Karlsson. I’ll text you if she gets worse,” Hunter says.
“Thank you, Hunter. And you can call me Jenny.”
“Okay. I’ve got this, Jenny.”
I peek through squinted eyes in time to see him give her that same smile as the day he met her in the bakery—the one he’s never shown me.
My mom still hesitates by the door. “Don’t wait to call Dr. Thorup if it gets any worse.” There’s a heavy pause when I don’t respond, and she says louder this time, “Liv!Promiseme. If you getanyworse, you call him—or have Hunter call him. I can’t leave unless I know you’re going to take care of yourself!”
The worry swimming in her eyes pierces me. “I promise,” I relent.
She purses her lips. “I’ll call and check in on her in an hour or two.”
Hunter nods.
“You promise to tell me anything that changes with Farmor too!” I call as she leaves, and she lifts a hand in acknowledgment before the door shuts behind her.
Once Mom’s gone, Hunter comes into the living room and perches on the edge of the love seat kitty-corner from the couch I’m lying on, my mom’s grocery bag of supplies in his lap. The stack of papers on the table is a white, graph-covered elephant between us.
The silence stretches, uncomfortable and weighted.
At last, Hunter clears his throat and says, “She seems really worried about a little sore throat and a headache.”
I frown. “Yeah, well, as much as I wish she were overreacting, this is my life. The last time I got a ‘little sore throat,’ I ended up in the hospital for a week.”
“Wow. Okay, she wasn’t exaggerating. That’s ... that would not be good.” Hunter’s forehead creases. “I guess I’ll go get you some water and your Tylenol and rub some peppermint onto the back of your neck and then make a cold compress with more peppermint on it.” He rattles off her list of instructions as he jumps to his feet, heading for the kitchen before I can respond.
I close my eyes to rest for what I assume will be a few minutes at least, but he’s back so fast I think he’s afraid I could die right there on the couch if I don’t get the Tylenol fast enough.
“Here,” he says, squatting in front of me, holding out a glass of water in one hand and balancing a single Tylenol in the palm of the other.
I’ve never realized until now how big his hands are or how long his tapered fingers are. To say nothing of the muscles flexing across his forearms as he extends the cup to set it down on the table next to me or the veins that stand out against his tanned skin, drawing my gaze to the swell of his biceps. Veins any phlebotomist would swoon over ... but that make me flush.
I barely stop myself from shaking my head to dislodge all intrusive thoughts about his hands or arms. Maybe Iamdeveloping a fever after all—that’s the only reason I would be this delusional, right? I definitely feel overheated, and that is theonlypossible explanation.
Not long, tapered fingers or arm veins.
Hunter, hopefully oblivious to my ogling, says, “And, um, I guess now I need to rub the peppermint on your neck?”
“No!”
