Page 82 of I Saw You First

“Bring what?” My brain is so foggy.

“Your germs. I can’t afford to have my whole media staff tossing their cookies. Stay home as long as you need to. Happy New Year!” he says cheerfully and hangs up.

I’ve been sick for two days. I throw up, think about Wil, eat crackers, think about Wil, drink ginger ale, think about Wil, try to read a few pages of A Convenient Bride until I fall asleep and wake up to puke once again. I throw up until there’s nothing left and then I dry-heave until my ribs ache and my entire body feels heavy and broken.

Mostly, in my haze, I think about Wil. I swoon when I think about his tattoos and his searing kisses (sweating, throwing the covers off) and blink back tears when I think about the fact that he hasn’t called to see how I’m doing (freezing, burying myself under his wool blanket, inhaling the scent of him that lingers on it).

I shuffle out to the kitchen, still wrapped in Wil’s blanket, for a glass of ice water. The red message light on the answering machine blinks. I hit play and skip the two messages from Brianna’s mom. The one from my own mother is rambling nonsense. It cuts off before she says anything important. The fourth is from Wil.

“Abbey, it’s Wil,” he says in his low, rumbly voice, as if I wouldn’t have known it was him. “Are you feeling better? Can I bring you anything? Call me when you feel up to it.” There’s a pause, and then, “It’s not the same here without you.”

I listen to the message again, and a third time. I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion and nausea, and I collapse onto the couch, cover myself with his blanket, and sleep.

When I wake up just before noon, I’m feeling about fifteen percent better. I drag myself into the bathroom for my first shower since the one in Wil’s fancy apartment. I smell like puke and sweat and… I lift my Styx Paradise Theatre T-shirt and sniff. Onions. I smell like onions. I’m going to have to burn this. Too bad. I like this shirt.

I shampoo my hair three times and double the amount of conditioner I typically use, then decide to leave it in. Can’t hurt. I stand under the hot spray for a long time. I’ve just pulled on a pair of wind pants, a clean Duran Duran T-shirt, and a zip-up fleece when the buzzer sounds.

I push the button. “Yes?”

There’s a crackle and then, “It’s Wil.”

It’s Wil. Wil’s here. My mouth falls open. Thank god I’m not still wearing my oniony Styx T-shirt, but why does he always show up when I’ve got wet hair?

I buzz him up, dash to the bathroom for a claw clip, and secure the heavy strands in a messy twist. Moments later, he knocks on the door. When I open it, he steps through carrying a to-go bag from Boston Market in one hand and a gigantic bouquet—cream roses, white carnations, pale blue delphinium, and pinecones—in the other.

“Hey,” he says. The delicious aroma of rotisserie chicken wafts from the bag.

I reach out to caress a rose petal. “Oh, Wil, they’re beautiful.” I sigh.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

My laugh turns to a sob. He’s such a sweet, sweet liar.

I collapse onto the sofa and point to the coffee table for Wil to set down the flowers. He slides a stack of SPIN magazines onto the floor to make room for the vase.

“What are you doing here?” I throw an arm over my eyes. The light streaming in from the balcony door is so bright. I hear him move across the room and pull the curtains closed.

“You didn’t return my call. I needed to see that you were all right.” He sits back down and reaches for me, pulling me close. I snuggle in under his arm and breathe in his delicious scent.

“Mmm,” I murmur. Then I pull away. “No! I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I won’t get sick.”

“You can’t know that.” Even though I want to relax into his embrace, I scoot to the far end of the couch. “Don’t you work today?”

“I’m scheduled to close.” He reaches for the Boston Market bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to eat, so I got a few things.” He pulls the containers out—a chicken pot pie, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and sweet potato casserole, my favorite. My stomach growls.

“When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

He pops open the container with two mini-loaves of cornbread. “Here, try this.”

I take a bite—sweet and sticky and dense—and then set the loaf back in the container as I swallow and the bread lands heavy in my sensitive stomach. “Maybe later.”

I lean my head against the back of the sofa, too fast, which makes my head spin. He reaches for my hand and drags his finger across it, sending a swirly swizzle under my skin.

“I’ve got one more thing for you.” He reaches into the bag, pulls out a slender paperback, and hands it to me. The deep pink cover shows an inset photo of a regency-era couple in a passionate embrace. She’s delicate and blonde in a crisp white gown and long white gloves past her elbows, and he’s dark and dashing and most undoubtedly a rake.