Page 20 of Rose and the Grouch Next Door

"You know what? You're like... a super hot zaddy professor." I squint at him, suddenly fascinated by the way his hair flops over his forehead and his beautiful icy blue eyes behind his glasses. "Wanna know a secret? I've got this urge to lick you again. So yummy."

Braxton's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, a blush creeping up his neck. "Rose, maybe you should rest more."

"No, no, listen," I insist, my fingers reaching out to tug at his sleeve. "You're like... academic daddy eye candy. And I'm here for it. All of it. I’ll play the naughty student."

"Right," he chuckles, but trying to mask it with a cough. "That's the fever talking."

"Or the whiskey," I quip with a lopsided grin, already feeling my consciousness slipping away again.

A short time later, Braxton's shaking my shoulder. Another cup of something in his hand. It smells less like something I’d serve at Salty's and more like cherry-flavored disappointment.

"Time for more medicine," he announces, and it sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

"Yay," I deadpan, the word dripping with sarcasm. I take the cup and down it like someone who's been promised a sticker afterward.

"Good girl," he praises, and I preen at the compliment. I really enjoy hearing him say that.

"Can I have a pony now?" I ask, batting my eyelashes.

"Sure, Rose," he plays along, tucking the covers around me. "As soon as you're better."

"Promise?" I mumble, half into the pillow.

"Promise," he confirms, soft and sincere.

"Braxton?" I whisper, the edges of reality blurring.

"Yes?"

"Your face is nice. I'm glad it's the last thing I see before I pass out."

"Go to sleep, Rose," he says, a tender smile in his voice.

"Okay, Professor Hot-Stuff," I slur, already dreaming of ponies and Braxton's new nickname.

Eyelids fluttering open, I'm greeted by a light filtering through the curtains and for the first time in what feels like ages, my body doesn't ache.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you're finally awake." I hear Braxton’s deep voice, then see he's holding a bowl of something that smells like chicken soup.

"Is that for me?" My voice sounds like it's been through a cheese grater.

"Yep. Thought you needed something in your belly." He sets the bowl on the nightstand and helps prop me up with an extra pillow. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been run over by a herd of turtles," I say with an attempt at a joke.

He laughs at my terrible humor, spoon in hand, ready to play nurse. "Open up, unless you prefer the 'airplane' method."

"Let’s not do the airplane. I’d never live that down." I open my mouth obediently to receive a spoonful of soup. It’s liquid comfort spreading down my throat.

"Good?" he asks after I swallow, his eyebrows arching in hopeful expectation.

"Better than good," I admit, savoring the taste.

He flashes a relieved smile and continues to feed me, spoonful by spoonful. "I've been worried about you," he says after a moment.

"Braxton, you didn't have to… " I start, but he shushes me softly.

"Rose, you were sick. I couldn'tnotbe here."

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