Page 111

Dean takes the bowl away when I’ve eaten half and can’t possibly eat any more. Then he brings me some medicine and water and helps me take it.

“You’re a very handsome magical fairy,” I say as I snuggle into the pillow and he tucks the covers in around me.

He laughs softly. Then I feel a quick brush of lips on my forehead before the door clicks shut, and I drift off again.

The next day I take a shower. And I feel like a new woman, like I’ve turned a corner and am through the worst of whatever I have.

I’m pretty sure I’ve heard both my dad and Dean use the word flu. Which is ridiculous because I don’t get the flu. I haven’t had it in years.

I think it’s probably the plague. That makes much more sense.

“Rosie?” Dean asks from outside my bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m . . . fine.”

I pick up my brush and try to work it through my wet hair, but even lifting my arm feels harder than it should. By the time I get halfway through one side, my arm is shaking.

Okay, so I’m not fine. Because all of a sudden, my limbs feel heavy and the floor shifts under my feet.

“Whoa,” I say.

“Rosie?” Dean’s voice sounds a little more panicked than necessary. Because I’m fine. I might just need to sit down on the floor of this bathroom.

I knock something off the counter, and it topples to the floor.

“I’m coming in,” Dean warns.

I panic that he’s going to see me naked but then remember that I put a robe on.

He opens the door to find me holding onto the counter for dear life.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he says, putting an arm around my waist and guiding me back to the bed.

“I smelled like death, and you know that,” I tell him.

He chuckles, walking me slowly to the bed. A bed he made up with fresh sheets while I was in the shower.

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t get a chance to brush my hair. It’ll be all tangled if I don’t.”

I don’t think he’s listening. He helps me get back into bed as chills work their way down my body. I roll over to my side, my back toward him as he tucks me in.

“I need to brush . . . my hair,” I say as my teeth rattle.

“Hold on,” he tells me.

A few seconds later, I feel bristles run lightly through my hair. Dean takes his time, carefully working through the tangles, and with every slow pass of the brush, I feel myself relax a little more. It feels amazing. Like the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. I can’t remember the last time someone brushed my hair like this.

I never want my magical fairy to leave.

Friday morning, I wake up and realize I can sit up without getting dizzy, my limbs no longer feel like they’re filled with wet cement, and I can actually make it to the bathroom on my own. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. Which is both good and bad.

Good, because I think I’m through the worst of it; bad, because I am absolutely mortified.

Dean took care of me.

For the past four days I haven’t been able to do anything for myself, and Dean did it all. He slept in the room, gave me medicine, took care of the inn, managed the guests . . . brushed my hair.

Oh, gosh. He brushed my hair.