Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
But I’m not going to laugh. Or even smile. I’ll never give anyone named Knowles the satisfaction.
Despite that resolution, almost thirty seconds pass before I trust myself to speak without betraying how near I came to chortling. “Well, luckily for you—I brought enough food for both of us. More than enough.”
“Glad to hear. I’ll pay you back for the portion I eat,” he says, suddenly grimacing. He reaches up toward his head.
“Don’t,” I say sharply. He stops and looks at me. “There’s a lump, but there’s also a cut. Wash your hands before you touch it. I suppose I should put on more antibiotic cream, too.”
That’s how I end up close to him again, though this time standing behind his chair instead of between his thighs. But still close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body as I dab the cream onto his scalp.
Capping the tube, I move around to study his face. Aside from the red flush over his cheekbones, his skin seems leached of color, with a gray undertone beneath his tan.
“No offense,” I tell him, “but you look like shit.”
Reed blinks slowly, as if his attention wasn’t all there until I spoke to him. He focuses on me. “None taken, because I feel like shit.”
“Worse or better than this morning?”
“The pain’s better. Not great, but better. Overall, I’m just…tired.”
“What about pukey?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s good, at least. I can’t be sure, because I don’t have a thermometer, but I think you’ve got a fever.”
“A fever,” he echoes with a short laugh. “So I haven’t been blushing all morning.” When I don’t respond to that, since I hadn’t noticed any blushing in the first place, he eventually adds, “Thank you for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” I snag the ibuprofen off the counter and return to my seat. “These should help with the fever—and it’s time for another dose. Then maybe go back to bed.”
He nods without argument. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
I bite back my knee-jerk ‘none of your fucking business.’ If he can thank me, then I can also mind my manners. Besides, he’s too sick to fight back. I might be vicious, but I’m not going to pick on someone weaker than I am.
And I suspect that he only asked because he’s reluctant to stand up again. Delaying, because either his head or his leg hurts and he doesn’t want to move yet.
I suppose I can help him delay. And what am I going to do? Dishes, first. After that? No idea. The tree decorations are finished but I can’t go outside for a tree yet. I’d planned to fill most of my free time working on a new thrift-store canvas, but I won’t paint while Reed Knowles is here. Even if he’s sleeping. I just…don’t want to open myself to anything he has to say. In general, I can take a lot of shit and my skin is fairly thick, but my art is one of my vulnerable points. I’m not going to put it on display where he can poke at it.
That leaves one option to fill the time. “I’ll read, probably.”
His eyes, which seemed a little glazed, sharpen with pointed interest. He indicates Harris’s small collection with a tilt of his head.
“One of those books over there?”
I shake my head. “I have some downloaded to my phone.”
He appears disappointed by that answer. Then a strange expression rolls over his features. Almost like embarrassment but not quite. “Good choice.”
I don’t know if he means reading is a good choice or if not reading one of Harris’s books is a good choice (which I’d already decided, because even if my tastes ran in that direction, horror is a bit too on the nose in an isolated cabin). But the way Reed’s eyelids droop, as if he’s about to lose consciousness right there, makes all thought of reading material fly out of my head.
“Reed,” I say and am relieved when he immediately meets my eyes. “Seriously. You do not look good. You should get into bed before that fever gets worse.”
“I know it.” He rubs his forehead. “But I’m going to take a shower first. See if some cold water helps cool me down.”
A cold shower seems crazy to me—but to each their own, I guess. “Don’t wash your hair. You’ll just wash out the antibiotic cream.”
“Good call. I wouldn’t have thought of that until I was already doing it.”
“And leave the door unlocked.” When his brows lift, I explain, “In case you pass out.”
He doesn’t even pretend that’s not a possibility. “If you hear a big thump, I’d appreciate a rescue.”
“Not sure if I’ll be able to rescue you, but I can at least turn off the water. I should warn you, though: if you see Hot Biscuit Slim about to use the litter in there, do whatever you must to save yourself. I’m not braving that. Just try not to breathe for about ten minutes.”