Page 59 of Man Flu

“What do you mean?” he asks, as lines furrow deep within his forehead.

“I’m not going to hold any of this against you. You’re a single man making a move—a bold one—with your new boss. I’m flattered, but you’re out of my league by a long shot, and this life I’m living isn’t one you need to bear the weight of.” I laugh because it’s true. He’s so far out of my league, I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to say Logan Grier puked in my bed.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says. “Rick can go screw himself if that’s how you truly feel. I just didn’t want to chance stepping into the middle of a family reconciliation. That’s what he was going on about, that and some other things …”

“Wow. Nope, there is definitely no family reconciliation in our future. None.” I’m honestly taken aback. “So—”

“I’ll take my pants off next time, then.” He smirks and groans as he rolls onto his back.

“There will be a next time?” I scratch my fingers gently down the length of his arm, playing along with his words.

“I guess we’ll see where the flu takes us,” he says with a humming sigh. Logan crosses his arms behind his head, revealing a whole lot of vomit beside the pillow.

“You should start with taking a shower,” I tell him. “I have to clean the sheets.”

“Yeah.” He looks down, disgusted at the mess he’s lying in. “Oh, man.”

Logan carefully drags himself up and out of the bed. Oy. He’s wearing the vomit like it’s another layer of clothes. “Uh, I should wash everything,” which will leave him naked up here in my bedroom.

He looks down, and his cheeks turn pale. “The sight of this is making me feel sick again.”

“Okay, let’s get you into the shower.” If only he weren’t sick while I’m telling him to get into my shower, I might be a whole lot happier.

I wrap my hand around Logan’s bicep—his rock hard, holy-shit-is-that-bone-or-steel bicep—and guide him toward the bathroom. I’d like to think I’m helping hold up a portion of his weight, but I don’t think it’s possible. He’s a rock.

Once I get him into the bathroom, he falls against the sink, holding himself up with his elbows as he stares at his reflection with an expression that looks like he’s about to start a fight with himself.

I reach into the shower and turn the knob, then test the temperature of the water in the palm of my hand. “Okay, all set. Can I have your clothes?”

“I—I’ll take care of that and hand them to you in a minute. Do you mind waiting in the bedroom?”

“Oh, okay, sure. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

I know this is wrong and completely inappropriate considering how sick he is, but I kind of need to know what the big deal is in his pants. His cock is fine. Like—definitely—fine, but there’s something I’m obviously missing.

I leave the bathroom and wait outside the door, listening to groans as Logan’s clothes fall to the floor. Another minute passes before a hand shoots out from a small cracked opening in the doorway, and his clothes are dropped in a ball at my feet. I want to bust in there right now and just find out what he’s hiding, but that’s low. Low, low, low—and I know I can’t do that.

I take the soiled clothes and bedding downstairs to the laundry room off to the back side of the kitchen. “Babe?” Rick calls out.

I laugh. He didn’t just refer to me as “Babe,” did he? He couldn’t possibly be delirious or delusional enough to say something stupid like that.

With a stiff breath, I let the comment pass by and move on to the laundry. Once the soap is in and the button has been pressed, I feel an urge to lock myself in this tiny room and take a nap. I’m still not feeling great, and it’s sort of like I was only allowed one day to be sick with the flu. Next time I get sick, I’m somehow checking myself into a hotel and not leaving until I’ve made a full recovery. I should probably consider scheduling that time into a calendar too.

Reluctantly, I reopen the door to the infirmary and head for the family room, where Rick is still whining about something.

Cora is seated at the edge of the pull-out, watching some YouTube chick play with Play-doh. What is this crap?

“Did you need something?” I made sure not to leave out any snark. “I can call Tiana if you miss the boob. Is that what it is? You need a bubba?”

“No, mommy. Tiana said she can’t just make milk appear like other women can—from her—.” Cora points to my chest. “Those things.” Think, then speak, Hannah. I have tried my hardest to stop talking shit about Rick or Tiana in front of Cora, but with the current extenuating circumstances, I just can’t stop it. I’m an awful mother sometimes … awful. Yet, I can’t stop laughing until I realize what Cora just asked me.

“Wait, wait, wait. Did Tiana tell Cora—our five-year-old—that she can’t make milk … you know like a mother does? Please say it’s not true, Rick. Please.”

Rick presses his fingers into the sides of his head. “Gawd, Hannah, she was listening outside the door. What do you want from me?”

“Are you planning to have another child with her?”