Page 45 of Taming His Teacher

“Shh, lamb. Take it easy.”

He’s stroking my face, pushing sticky strands of hair off my forehead. And he’s called me lamb. I don’t know where that came from, but it slides off his tongue like he’s said it ten thousand times before. It is such a comfort. A flush of warmth spreads through my body—not the fevered burning I’ve felt since last night, but a pleasant rush.

I should sit up, send him away, express my protest at him waltzing in here when he’s done his damnedest to keep me at arm’s length since he’s been here, but his cool gentle touch convinces me otherwise. I want him to touch me this way forever. Besides, I’m not confident I could sit up without passing out. So fluttery blinking it is, like some Victorian-era lady whose unspecified illness keeps her abed.

His voice is soft and his forehead pinched in concern. “Have you gotten out of bed today?”

I shake my head, feeling like my skull might become detached from my body and roll off the pillow, settling under the bed. “No.”

He frowns and I look at the clock. It’s two in the afternoon. “I’m going to get you some water. Do you have a thermometer?”

“Bathroom.” Will was a bit of a hypochondriac, always certain he had whatever bug was making its way around the boys, so we’d had three all told. He left me the old-school glass-and-mercury one when he’d moved out.

Shep brushes a hand over my forehead one more time. Though he’ll be gone a few minutes at most, I want to cry.Come back, please.I fall half-asleep while he’s gone. He has to rouse me again, calling me out of my sickness with his low voice and his weight making the side of my bed dip. Shep is technically in my bed. The thought makes my heart stutter, and not in the fevered palpitations that had scared me half to death in the middle of the night.

“Open up, lamb. Let’s take your temperature and then you can have some water.”

I open my mouth, suddenly conscious I probably have worse than morning breath, but before I can fret too much, he’s sliding the glass and metal under my tongue. When it’s as far back as it will go, I close my mouth and my eyes, shivering when his hand rests cool on the hot skin of my neck. He leaves it there until the temperatures even out and then it’s a warm, heavy, comforting weight.

“Time’s up,” he says, stroking me. Then he takes the thermometer from between my lips. I crack my lids to see him squint at the tiny numbers in the glow of the lamp he’s turned on. The crease between his brows deepens. “I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Shep

A hundred and three? That can’t be good. Normal’s ninety-eight point six, right? A hundred and three?

I don’t want to scare her, though, so I pet her a few more times before I get up and walk out, the whole time a panicky voice in the back of my head scrambling all over itself, freaking the fuck out.A hundred and fucking three?In the living room, I pace and fumble my phone. I have to scroll through my contacts three times before I find the number I’m looking for. After a ring, she answers and I cut her off, not giving her a chance for hellos.

“Mrs. Wilson? I mean, Tilly?”

“Yes, Shep—”

“I’m with Erin. She’s got a fever of a hundred and three. Do I need to take her to the ER?”

There’s a pause on the other end. What’s taking so long? This should be simple: yes or no. Mrs. Wilson was the school nurse for twenty years. She’s dealt with more fevers, real and fabricated, than you could shake a rank jockstrap at.

“Probably not,” she says cautiously, “but I can come take a look at her.”

“Would you? I don’t want to—”

“Of course. Erin’s like a granddaughter to me. And if Kent knew she was sick and I didn’t check on her, I’d have a very unhappy ghost on my hands. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Mrs.— Tilly, I appreciate it.”

That’s a weight off my shoulders. But Mrs. Wilson’s said “probably.” What if she’s—

No, can’t think that way. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to Erin’s room, where she’s lying with her eyes closed.

I sit on the side of her bed and stroke her cheek until she opens her eyes.

“Your Aunt Tilly’s going to come over. In the meantime, you should have some water. Can you roll over?”

She struggles onto her side with my help. I was glad but surprised to find a bendy straw in her kitchen, but the place is like a kindergartner’s dream house: a drawer full of straws, another of cookie cutters, and a shelf full of glasses with colorful cheery animals. I brought her an orange owl. I thought it looked the happiest.

She sips listlessly and I urge her to have more, prodding her until the whole glass is gone. Her skin tone’s evened out, some of the red in her cheeks leaking into the cream of the rest of her face. It makes things seem less dire. I get her another glass and when she’s made it halfway through, there’s a knock at the door. I excuse myself to find a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Wilson on the threshold.

Shedding her snow-caked boots and coat, she bustles her way past me to Erin’s bedroom, leaving me to trail behind her like some useless puppy dog.

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