She frowns. “Nobody’s ever nursed me back to health. I mean, except my father.”
Either she’s been exceptionally healthy or her ex-boyfriends were shit. I put my money on the latter. I’ve been sick before, and my ex-girlfriends never did anything.
“Well, your dad isn’t here,” I say. “So you’re stuck with me. Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better soon. You have anything for the fever?” There must be some Tylenol or Advil around.
“Chicken noodle soup,” Amy says.
“Huh?”
“That’s what I want.” Her eyebrows pull together. “That’s what I get when I’m sick.”
“Comfort food?” I wonder where I can get some soup. There’s always Campbell’s, but I don’t know if that’s what she has in mind. And nothing’s sadder than getting not-quite-right comfort food when you’re sick.
“Yeah. Dad used to make it for me from scratch.”
From scratch? She looks at me like I can single-handedly butcher a plump chicken and turn it into soup in the next hour. But I don’t want to burn the building down. “I can’t do homemade soup, but I know someone who can.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Amy
I don’t have to wait long before Emmett has piping-hot chicken noodle soup delivered and brings a tray of it into my bedroom. It isn’t homemade, obviously, but it doesn’t seem to be from a can, either.
The broth is richly flavored, full of shredded chicken meat, noodles and veggies. It isn’t exactly like how my dad makes it, but it’s pretty close.
“Good?” Emmett asks.
“Yes. Thank you.” I smile a little. The soup tastes like warmth and love. But most importantly, it shows he cares.
Since I left home for college, I’ve put pressure on myself to do well and be self-sufficient. When I got sick—which happened occasionally—I fended for myself and did my best to avoid letting Dad know because I didn’t want him to worry. He’s done so much for me already that I don’t want to be a burden anymore. I want to be a daughter he can be proud of, an adult he can count on.
And some of my ex-boyfriends didn’t want to do much when I was sick because dealing with a sick person is never fun. Sasha can’t stick around when I’m sick; she’s way too busy, which I totally understand. We’ve sort of mutually agreed to bring each other OTC meds and some snacks, but that’s about where things end.
Emmett is the first person since Dad to not only hover but insist on taking care of me. Our relationship is supposed to be just about sex, but his solicitousness makes me feel good anyway. Part of me wants to lean just a little bit more. A small voice in my head warns that that’s a terrible idea. But I can’t figure out why it’s so bad when it feels so nice.
After I finish the soup, Emmett tucks me in and takes the tray away. I watch him read a printed report—he’s always working—and we talk a little bit about the project. Then I start to get tired. He looks at me and shuts his mouth. I doze off.
When I open my eyes again, it’s dark in my room. My head
is no longer full of wet cotton balls and molasses. The chicken noodle soup Emmett brought me must’ve done the trick. If it hadn’t been for that, I would’ve gotten a can of Campbell’s. Sasha thinks it’s weird, but when I feel this awful, nothing but chicken noodle soup will do. Placebo effect, maybe, but it works.
I stand up carefully. The room doesn’t whirl.
Feeling optimistic, I start to stretch my arms above my head. I wonder if Emmett’s gone home. It’s not like he has anything to do around here. If he goes home, he could work…
Work!
Holy shit! The offer from the Blaire Group! I left it on the dining table last night!
Sheer, unadulterated panic surges. I rush out into the dining room and freeze at the sight of Emmett at the table.
He is typing away on his laptop, but that isn’t the point. The manila envelope is the second one from the top, right below some grocery store leaflet. Is that how I left the mail last night? I can’t remember. There’s no reason for him to go through my mail, but if he accidently knocks the stack over… Or… Or…
There are billion perfectly innocent scenarios in which he might discover the written offer. The envelope doesn’t have anything to indicate it’s about a job, although he might wonder why the Blaire Group sent me a thick manila envelope.
“Well, hello,” Emmett says.
“Hi.”