“You’re really sexy with your cap that way,” I say. “It’s unfair.”
His gaze hits mine. “I’ll remember that.”
He makes room on my nightstand for the tray and helps me sit up, propping pillows behind my back. With utmost care, he passes me a bowl but doesn’t let go until he’s sure I can hold it without sloshing it over the sides. I can’t.
He sits on my bed and holds my soup bowl while I feed myself dinner he made. Maybe this is all an illusion, and I’m still conked out on the living room couch. Nobody’s ever done this for me before. Definitely nobody I dated. I can’t even remember the last time my mom waited on me this way. It’s horrifyingly reassuring.
“The soup’s really good.” It’s chicken made with a wild rice mix I had stuffed away in the pantry. Better than any recipe he might have found in my notebook, too. He cooks and takes care of sickies and kisses like he invented the pastime. I don’t know how he does it.
I push my hair over my shoulder to take another bite, but it slumps back, getting in my way.
He sets aside my bowl. “Here. Let me help.”
Reed Bridgerbraids my hairto get it out of my face, securing it with a hair tie he snagged off my nightstand. Just casually does my hair like a freaking hero. Then he sits down again, ready to hold my soup bowl so I can keep eating. Tears are definitely on the horizon.
“You know how to braid hair?” Obviously he does, since he just did. The question falls out of my mouth anyway.
“Jovie’s not picky about who she asks to do her hair.”
I think big burly coffee shop owners who know how to braid hair are my favorite.
“You’re my favorite, too.” He lifts the soup bowl, waiting for me to take another bite.
My thoughts keep coming out as words. Maybe I should quit talking. Or quit thinking. One of them isn’t working right.
I eat as much dinner as I can stomach and take big sips from the glass of water he brought me. When I peter out on dinner, he digs into his. I arch back into the pillows, trying to get comfortable, but my body is too achy and overheated to totally relax.
Out of an abundance of experience, I have to say that Reed is a really handsome eater. Some guys attack their food like they’re carnivores whose prey is going to get away if they don’t lunge immediately. Others are just generally gross, and don’t care where splatters and flecks of food land. Reed eats like a gentleman, wiping his mouth with a napkin so he doesn’t get soup in his beard. Not a slurp to be heard. He could be on flippingBridgerton.
He’d be the stable master all the noble ladies lust after, until he finds out he’s secretly an earl. Then he’d marry the poor maid he’s loved for years.
I smooth my hands over my flyaways, imagining my role as Sick Patient #2 onGrey’s Anatomy. She would die tragically when the new intern mixed up her meds. “I’m sorry this is such a terrible second date.”
His hand finds mine again in my lap. “I’ll take you on a better one.”
“You’re not supposed to see me like this.”
“In your jammies?” His mouth tips up. “I’m trying not to look.”
He really is, the saint.
“Not the jammies.” If I were completely healthy, I’d be at leasta little mortified that I’m hanging out with him and practicallyhanging out, too. This set leaves a lot of skin exposed, but since I’m pretty sure my internal organs are burning to a crisp right now, I can’t care all that much. “You’re not supposed to let the person you’re dating see your bad side. Definitely not your ‘one-hundred-two-degree fever’ side.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t know where you heard that, but I respectfully disagree. The person you’re dating is supposed to see all your sides. Otherwise, how can you know you want to be together?”
I move my head side to side on my pillow, but it’s too disorienting, and I have to stop. “That’s not what my parents say. They remind me over and over to be as accommodating and as likable as possible. Always be sweet. Don’t talk about my crafting hobbies,Gilmore Girls, orMamma Mia!Don’t mention Stardew Valley. Don’t talk about horror movies.”
“You like horror movies?”
“No, I really hate them, but guys seem to like them, so I’m not supposed to admit it.”
“Rose.” He shifts closer, leaning in to cup my sweaty face and stroke my hair. “I say this with as much love as possible. Your parents are full of crap.”
I laugh, smiling for the first time all day. Kind of hurts, to be honest. “You might be right. Taking their advice hasn’t worked for me so far.”
I’ve been sweet and genial and accepting. I’ve molded myself to fit in with what men I dated liked. I’ve practiced having no preferences and no complaints. I’ve hidden myself away, leaving only the most “perfect” aspects front and center. I’ve still been dumped over and over.
“I don’t want you to use their advice on me.” He strokes my hair, gazing at me like I’m not literally lying on a sick bed. “Don’t second guess your wants and needs. Because newsflash, firefly—taking care of your wants and needs is my job.”