Page 87 of Boyfriend
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “But you’re awfully good at hospital corners.”
He just shrugs. “Are you going to dry that hair? Weston will yell at me if he thinks you look cold.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” I hobble back into the bathroom and spend a few tiring minutes with the blow dryer. Then I brush my teeth. That done, I throw my clean self on the clean bed and moan, because my heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon.
“Aren’t you the picture of health,” Cooper says. “Maybe this will help?” He’s inched his way toward me with a bowl of soup in one hand and a crutch under the other arm.
“You really don’t have to wait on me,” I say, grabbing the bowl as it wobbles. “That’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, because you look so competent yourself.” He chuckles. “Eat the soup, Abbi. Why do you hate getting help?”
“I don’t,” I snap, but it’s only half true. Help is wonderful. But you should never get too used to it. I look down at the bowl. It’s full of steaming chicken noodle. “Thank you,” I manage.
“Don’t mention it.” He pulls a spoon out of his pocket. “Mind if I have some, too? There’s more.”
“Of course not. Dig in.”
“Just don’t tell Weston,” he says.
“I won’t. Cross my heart.”
The floppy-haired surfer boy gives me a smile and crutches back to my kitchen.
* * *
After we manage to get the dishes cleared, it's time to face another problem. I locate my phone on the floor under the bed, and warily unlock it.
I find a couple of missed calls from Weston, of course, and some text messages asking me to call him. But the most frantic messages on my phone are from Carly. Where are you? What's wrong? Kippy is so mad! Call me.
Oh boy. That can’t be good.
I’m terrified to open my email. The first thing I spot is a polite message from Taft at Vermont Tartan, asking if I've had a chance to make a decision about the job. Then there's a follow-up message explaining that he’d heard from Dalton that I was ill, and to take my time.
Then, in a complete study of contrasts, I find a pissed-off email from Kippy at the Biscuit. Abbi, this is unacceptable. Two shifts blown without a phone call? We have terminated your employment. Your last check will be issued within 10 days.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Then I let out a tortured groan.
That's when the door pops open and Weston enters carrying my keys. “What's the matter? Why is Abby moaning? Cooper, what have you done?”
“Calm down, Westie,” I say, dropping my phone onto the bed. “I was groaning at an email.”
Weston stalks over to me, setting my keys on the night stand, and sitting on the edge of the bed. His beautiful eyes find and hold my gaze. “Cooper, you're dismissed,” he says without even a glance at his teammate.
“Yes, sir.” Cooper chuckles. Then he rises, grabs his crutches and heads carefully toward the door.
“Thanks for the, um, help,” I manage.
He flashes me a quick smile before he disappears.
Even after the door shuts, Weston continues to stare at me with clear, serious eyes. “How are you feeling?” he whispers, taking both my hands in his.
I don’t know what to do with that penetrating gaze, and it rattles me. “I’m, uh, doing fine. Nothing to see here. Thanks.”
Awkward much? Yikes.
Nonetheless, Weston leans in and gently kisses me on the forehead. His lips linger, and I stop breathing. “Don't think you're feverish anymore.”
“Right. Yep.”
