Page 117 of The Thought of You

“You most certainly do,” I mutter under my breath as I take another look at Addie’s house, fantasizing about last night—the whole last week, really.

And I want more of that.

chapter

thirty-seven

ADDIE

I wake up from my deep slumber in a daze.

My head pounds, and my stomach aches.

Chills rack my limp body as I heave myself into a seated position against the headboard.

The sun’s still shining, so is it safe to assume it’s still Friday? Or did I sleep for twenty-four hours? Either one could be true.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, then find water on my nightstand. At the sight, I smack my lips and realize how dry my mouth is. It’s like I’ve spent the last two hours sucking on cotton balls.

The few sips instantly soothe my scratchy throat, and I throw my feet over the side of the bed, only to land in a bowl—my puke bowl.

Owen.

He was here, in my house, taking care of me. He was gentle and comforting, and?—

“Oh no.” I cover my mouth as I gag, my stomach recoiling in wild discomfort. I hoist the bowl up to my chin and race to the bathroom, only to find it’s a false alarm.

With a sigh, I return to my bedroom, weak from head to toe. I’m so out of it that I don’t even flinch when a head pokes into my room, although at any other time, I would’ve shrieked and grabbed the lamp from my desk to use as a weapon.

I have no strength for all that right now, but I am surprised to find it’s not Owen.

“Mrs. Conrad?” I squint.

“Now, now. I asked you to call me Dorothy.” She pushes the door farther open and enters, a tray in her hands with a steaming bowl in the center and a glass vase of two pink flowers in the corner. “I thought I heard you stirring. You should try to eat something, darlin’. Some soup and crackers should help settle your stomach.”

What is happening? Am I hallucinating?

“Come and sit.” She gestures toward the bed, where the covers are thrown back from my nap. “Sit, sit,” she insists.

I do as she instructs, settling back into my previous position on the bed and pulling the covers up to my chest. It’s at this point that I realize I’m in mismatched pajamas—I’m wearing a green-and-white Christmas top and shorts decorated in raspberries. Did a monkey dress me?

“This is chicken and rice soup. I make it for my kids all the time.” She props the tray onto its legs over my lap, and the smell is actually very pleasant. “Not to brag, but Whitney says it’s magic.”

I blow on a spoonful and take a bite, although it’s mostly chicken broth. I close my eyes and savor the warm, soothing soup. “So good,” I whisper and dunk my spoon back in. I’m only one bite in, but I already know this is going to work wonders on my throat.

“Eat some crackers too, and drink plenty of water.”

“Mrs.—Dorothy,” I correct myself. “Not that I’m not super grateful, but what are you doing here?”

“Did Owen not tell you I was coming?” She tilts her head.

“I don’t think so, but then again, my head’s a little fuzzy.” Which probably explains the outfit. It’s possible I thought this combo matched in my disoriented state.

“Owen had to get back to work, but he wanted to make sure you’re taken care of. That’s where I come in.” She spreads her arms.

I lower the spoon slowly as what she says resonates in a puddle of goo in my chest. “That’s very… thoughtful,” I whisper.

“That’s my son for you.”

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