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“Yes.”
“Why am I in your bedroom? What the hell happened?” I swallow again, wincing again. Fuck, I hate having a sore throat.
Instead of answering my questions, Ian grabs some pillows and slides them behind my back. It’s all very Florence Nightingale for someone that the internet claims has circuit boards in place of a heart. And yes, ever since he gave me permission to google him, I’ve been shamelessly reading everything my iPhone can get its greedy little paws on.
Don’t judge me.
“I don’t understand what’s happening here. How did I get here?”
His blank look implies it’s a stupid question. “I carried you.”
“Why?”
“The doctor said you needed someone to watch over you. It seemed logical that it would be easier to do it from here than in the cottage. The sofa in the cottage proved…” He trails off as if searching for the right word. “Incompatible with getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Wait. You slept on my sofa?”
His lips twist in either a grimace or an attempt at a smirk. “Not very well.”
A series of images parade through my imagination. First, his tall frame draped over the loveseat in the cottage, head angled awkwardly on one arm, his legs draped over the other like a cartoon.
I wouldn’t be able to sleep on the loveseat even if I curled into a fetal position, so there’s no way he could.
The second image that pops into my mind is less comical. It’s of him carrying me, bride-style down to the house. Is that why I dreamed of sleeping in my grandpa’s boat? Of the gentle rocking? And the feeling of being completely safe?
Why do I feel so safe around this man? This man I barely know?
I’m still struggling to process all of this when Mr. Sniggles bumps his head against my hand in an obvious bid for attention.
“And you brought Mr. Sniggles, too?”
“Obviously.”
I mentally roll my eyes at myself. What is up with all the stupid questions? Yes, I’m sick, but is this virus eating my brain?
Obviously, Ian must have brought Mr. Sniggles. It’s not like Mr. Sniggles could have ventured out of the cottage on his own to search for me Incredible-Journey style.
But at the same time … the idea that my aloof employer is taking such good care of me, that he not only carried me down to his house so I could sleep in his bed, but that he also brought my cat?
It’s all so improbable.
People don’t do this kind of thing.
No one I know has ever taken care of me like this. Not since I was a child.
Yes, my mom cared for me when I was sick as a child, obviously. But even then, I was a stubborn little brat who didn’t like to accept help from anyone.
“He needs food. And water. And a litter box.”
Ian arches an eyebrow. “Obviously. Clearly, the fact that you feed me three meals a day has given you the impression that I’m unable to care for myself, let alone another creature. Nevertheless, I assessed his needs and brought all of those things down to the house.”
His stoic delivery leaves acres of territory for a smart-ass comeback, but I’m too tired to think of one. Instead, I sink back against the pillows, let my eyes flutter closed, and take comfort in the low rumble of Mr. Sniggles’s purring and the delightful weight of the blanket.
The scent of cedar and bergamot provides another layer of comfort.
“While you’re awake, try to drink some broth. You need as many fluids as you can take.”
“There should be some broth in the—”
