Page 7 of Delicious
“Fuck. Sorry. No. I don’t quite know what I’m saying, but my friend is very sick. He is throwing up.”
She quickly gets the right idea, giving me a box of some kind of Alka-Seltzer-type medication that dissolves in water and some pills in a blister pack. She writes down how often he should take everything and suggests that I get some beverages to help him rehydrate.
I thank her and pay, switching to French, then stop by a corner store and get some Sprite and a few bottles of water before heading back to Ben’s fancy hotel.
The place has staff everywhere—to open the door, push the elevator buttons for you, and so on. I flash the key card I’d swiped from his wallet, and no one questions me as I go up to his floor.
The luxe room is small by US standards but big for Europe, with a sitting area in addition to the bathroom. Poor Ben is curled up in bed, a lump under the blanket, and it makes my heart hurt.
“Hey,” I whisper, brushing back his bangs and checking his forehead. He doesn’t seem to have a fever. “I got you some medicine.”
He looks out of it, but swallows and nods. I fix up his meds and let him drink. We’re both on tenterhooks as to whether it will stay down, but it does, and he falls back to sleep.
I don’t want to leave him, so I kick off my shoes, curl up on the couch, and play with my phone until I too fall asleep. It was an early morning.
When I wake at dawn, I’m grateful our class is only three days a week. I’m starving, so I order room service for both of us, figuring I’ll pay him back for it. I make sure to order a chamomile tisane for Ben.
He wakes up looking groggy and holding his stomach. “Oh my God. You’re still here.”
“Hey,” I say softly, standing up and moving to the bed. I sit down next to him. “How are you?”
Ben shoves his face into the pillow. “I’m so embarrassed. You had to hear all that. It’s gross.”
I shrug. “I don’t care about that. It wasn’t your fault. I care that you’re feeling better.”
“You didn’t have to stay,” he mutters.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone while you were sick. That’s okay, right? You don’t mind?” I place a hand on his back to rub his shoulders gently.
“No.” He gives me a weak smile. “I like having you here.” He opens his mouth to say something more, but there’s a knock at the door. I stand and let room service wheel in our silver-domed breakfast. I sign the receipt, adding a tip, and close the door behind the server.
Ben sits up after they leave. “When did you order this?”
“While you were sleeping.”
I can tell he still feels crappy, so I help him adjust his pillows. I can also tell he wants to protest that he can do it but knows that he can’t and appreciates the help.
I pour him tea from the pot and give him a lightly buttered roll, because that seems safe. He sips the tea gingerly, trying his stomach.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” he says.
“I don’t mind. It’s our day off.” We have class every other day. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
I smile. “Well then.” I dig into my hot coffee and croissant, and we watch the sunrise over Paris out his tall windows.
There are worse ways to wake up.
CHAPTER6
Ben
While I feel like raw hamburger—which isn’t something I want to think about, seeing as I got to see my steak tartare twice—things have improved this morning. I’m pretty sure I got food poisoning, since once my body settled and I slept, I felt better. But what has really made me feel better is Mason, all rumpled and generous and taking care of me.
He soothes me when he places a cool washcloth on my forehead or gives me a light back rub. Or does nothing. His mere presence in the room helps.
Now he’s sitting by the window, sipping coffee from a small cup and smiling at me, his golden curls going every which way. He’s mowed through most of a basket of croissants and rolls with fresh jam and butter.
