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I drift back to sleep before I can go find Ian and ask him to turn on the heat in the cottage before he goes back to the main house.
The next time I wake up, it’s later in the day. I can tell because the door to the bedroom is open now and from my spot on the bed, I can see straight through the living area to the tiny kitchen at the front of the cottage.
Ian is standing at the sink, looking out the window as he talks on the phone. The sunlight shining in surrounds him like a halo. I can barely make out his side of the conversation as he gives the person on the other end of the phone his address. Mr. Sniggles sits at Ian’s feet pawing at Ian’s leg.
Ian absentmindedly reaches down and scratches Mr. Sniggles’s huge fluffy head.
I hope he figures out that Mr. Sniggles is begging for food.
When I wake the next time, Ian is standing beside my bed, talking to a man I’ve never seen before. He’s holding my cat.
I got Mr. Sniggles from a local rescue place a couple of years ago. Based on his size and general temperament, I think he’s a Maine Coone—Mantee mix. He’s huge and timid and hides from everyone but me. And apparently Ian.
“Mr. Sniggles doesn’t like to be held,” I mutter, sounding sleepy and grumpy and out of sorts.
Both men and the cat all turn toward me at the sound of my voice. I swear Mr. Sniggles huffs in indignation.
“Ah! You’re awake,” the stranger says, stepping closer and sitting on the edge of the bed. He runs a hand over my forehead. “Do you think you can sit up? I’d like to take your temperature and listen to your lungs.”
“Of course I can sit up.” Though when I try to get my hands under me and push up, I’m far weaker than I should be. “Who are you? How long was I asleep?” I glare at Ian and Mr. Sniggles. “Why are you holding my cat?”
Ian answers first. “He seems to like it.”
He rounds to the other side of the bed, sets Mr. Sniggles by my feet, and reaches across to effortlessly hoist me into a sitting position.
“I had it,” I grumble in protest.
Ian smirks. “Of course you did.”
My cat paws at him, and he drops his hand back to Mr. Sniggles’s head.
“I’m Dr. Berry,” the other man says, answering the question I’d almost forgotten I’d asked. “Mr. Donavon here called and asked me to have a look at you.”
“Oh. That’s not necessary.”
“I agree.” The doctor runs his hands over my throat, palpating my lymph nodes. “I think it’s probably just a bad cold. But I’ll test you for the flu, covid, and strep, just to be sure.”
He whips out an old-fashioned thermometer from a pocket and pokes it in my mouth, rambling about how he prefers this kind to the new-fangled ones as he presses a stethoscope to my chest and tells me to take a breath.
Even as sleep befuddled and groggy as I am, I know three things:
1. Doctors who make house calls are hella expensive.
2. I definitely can’t afford this.
3. Ian is clearly some kind of cat whisperer
Nearly an hour later, I’ve been tested and cleared of the flu, covid, and strep. I’ve been ordered to rest, hydrate, and take over the counter pain meds as needed. I have written prescriptions for cough medicine—just in case one develops—and (I’m not making this up) “At least three days of TLC.”
I try to roll my eyes and make a snarky comment about it, but the hour of sitting up in bed, answering questions, and being poked and prodded by test swabs has worn me out. I’m asleep again before Dr. Berry even leaves.
Texts between Ian and Martin
twelfth week
Do I have control issues?
Obviously.
