Page 161 of Vicious Temptation

A shadow crosses his face. “Ryan?”

“I don’t know his name, but I ran into him by chance. He called me Braga’s girl and told me to tell you the guys miss you.”

Thiago closes his eyes briefly, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Sounds like Ryan.”

I squeeze his hand. “You should have called me.”

The words leave my mouth faster than I can stop them, and his eyes meet mine.

“I know. I was going to call.” His voice drops. “I wanted to apologize. I just kept thinking I’d feel better tomorrow.”

I give his hand another squeeze. “I should have called too.”

Thiago stares me for a moment. “I thought we weren’t friends.”

“We’re not,” I say with a grin. “But somebody has to make sure you survive the night.”

Another weak chuckle.

“By breaking into my apartment?”

“Technically, you left the door unlocked. So that’s on you, Officer Braga. At least I’m not a serial killer.” I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and twist off the cap. “Here. Take these.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Thiago.”

His gaze lifts to mine. I rarely use his first name, and judging by the way he looks at me, he notices. Maybe it’s the fever or the exhaustion, but whatever fight he had left in him disappears. He slowly pushes himself upright and reaches for the tablets and Gatorade without another word.

As soon as he swallows the medicine, he sinks back against the couch, sighing.

“Good boy.”

He shoots me a look. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.”

Another shiver works through him, pulling at something deep inside my chest. I place my hand over his again.

“You know, whenever I got sick, Estela used to make the best caldo de pollo.”

The words slip out before I realize what I’ve said, and neither of us speaks for several breaths. I haven’t spoken about her out loud since she died, and I fully expect the familiar sting of grief to creep in as it always does when I think of her. But the memory brings something softer, the kind of nostalgia that makes me miss her without completely breaking my heart.

I can almost smell the broth simmering on the stove and hear Estela humming in the kitchen while she cooked. I can picture the way she’d shoo everyone away and insist that her soup could cure anything from a cold to a broken heart.

The memory brings a smile to my face.

“She swore it had healing powers.”

Thiago watches me quietly. “Did it?”

“Absolutely.” My smile grows. “At least, I like to think it did. Sometimes our souls need healing before our bodies.”

A thoughtful look crosses his face before he nods and lets his eyes drift closed again.

I give him another once-over. “You know what else you need?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, sounding dangerously close to falling asleep.