Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Weston!” Lena called, and I glanced over my shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Something important came up,” I said. “Enjoy the game.”
BRYNN
“Go away,” I said while leaning against my front door with a box of tissues in one hand. I sniffled and the action almost split my head in two. “Save yourself!”
“Open the door, Brynn,” Weston demanded from the other side.
“No,” I fired back. “You’ll get…you’ll get…” I sneezed into a tissue, groaning as I spun around, walking through my apartment to toss it in the toilet and flush it. “Go. Away!” I called while I washed my hands, my legs trembling from the simple act of standing.
I hated the flu. I rarely got hit with it, but when I did? The shit lingered.
“If you don’t open the door I’m going to break it down.”
I gaped at the closed door, my hands dried and my box of tissues dutifully at my side. “You’re not the boss of me right now!”
“Brynn,” Weston said my name like a warning. “Three…”
Jesus the man was infuriating sometimes.
“Two…”
I glanced down at myself, cursing the sweatpants and loose T-shirt combo. I was an absolute wreck, but he’d seen me at my worst before. Still, I didn’t want him getting sick.
“One.”
Shit.
I hurried to open the door, eyes widening when I found Weston on the other side, his foot raised. “Omigod,” I said. “You really were going to kick in my door?”
He shrugged, dipping to scoop up a paper bag filled with groceries with one arm, and his overnight bag with the other. “I would’ve fixed it.”
I shook my head, waving him in with my box of tissues. “You do realize we can’t really afford for you to get the flu right now, don’t you?”
He ignored me, walking into the heart of my apartment and making himself at home as he unloaded the groceries in my kitchen. “You do realize that we can afford it, right?”
I rolled my eyes, settling into a chair at my kitchen table. “You’re so damn stubborn, you know that?”
“Be nice,” he said, waving a handful of carrots at me. “Or I won’t make your favorite soup.”
That perked me right up. “You brought ingredients?”
“You know I did.” He continued to put up the rest of the groceries, then rummaged around my kitchen for a cutting board.
“You’re a wonderful human being,” I said.
“I know.” He grinned at me.
“Reckless,” I continued. “But wonderful.”
“I’ve always been reckless,” he said with a shrug.
I propped my too-heavy head on my hand, practically draping myself over the kitchen table. God, I hated this. It felt like my body was on slow-motion mode with a side of pain and more pain.
Weston chopped up the carrots before eying me. “Go get back in bed, Brynn,” he demanded. “I’ll bring you a bowl when it’s done.”
I leaned further over the table. “Can’t,” I answered, my forehead dipping against the cool wood. “Too. Tired.”
My fever was back, and it was a rueful bitch. God, when did it get so cold in here? I shivered but didn’t have the energy to move.
“I’m just going to close my eyes until you’re done,” I explained, sinking heavier against the table. “Thank you—”
Strong, muscled arms wrapped around me, hauling me off the chair and against an even broader chest.
“Weston,” I whined, but let my head rest against his chest anyway. “I can walk. I was only kidding that I was too…” I yawned. “Tired.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a super funny joke.” He cocked an eyebrow at me as he carried me down the hallway to my bedroom. “Here,” he said, laying me gently on my bed and tucking the covers around me. “Sleep. I’ll bring you the soup when it’s ready. And if you need anything in the meantime, just yell for me.”
I sank into my pillows, my body sighing at the comfort my bed offered. My eyes were heavy, shutting completely without my permission.
“Thanks, Wes,” I whispered, my entire being submitting to the exhaustion.
I felt his hand brush across my forehead, the touch gentle and comforting. I wanted to open my eyes, to keep talking to him, to tell him he didn’t need to leave the Raptor game for me, to argue with him some more about his own well-being, but now that I was warm and cozy, there was nothing on the planet that could keep me awake.
“Wait,” Weston said after taking another bite of his ice cream. He pointed a licked-clean spoon at the television hanging on the wall over my chest of drawers.
It was about three in the morning because after my four-hour-long nap, I’d awoken starving and energized even though I still felt like I’d been run over by a bus. I ate two bowls of the soup Weston prepared—a deliciously flavorful chicken noodle, my fave—and now we were on to ice cream and Netflix.