Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I attempted to roll my eyes, but it hurt so I stopped. “Aren’t you worried about catching what I have?”
“You have the flu. The doctor said there’s been an outbreak in the area.”
Groaning, I slumped back against my pillow. I bet I caught it at the market the other day. The place was packed with people. “And you’re not worried about catching it?”
Cavendish shrugged. “I have a remarkable immune system. I can’t remember the last time I was ill. I’ve been on several film sets where almost the entire crew has come down with something, and yet”—he gestured to himself—“nothing. Healthy as a horse.”
“Fine. But can you explain what you’re doing here? It’s a wee bit surreal that, of all people, you’re the one taking care of me.”
Cavendish crossed his arms over his chest. “I read your books. They’re rather good. I came to write the screenplay.”
Shock froze me to the pillow. I was not well enough to deal with this. “M-my agent is reading through the contract a producer has sent. It’s almost a done deal.”
“Almost being the operative word. These things take forever. But we can have this conversation later. Right now, you have the flu, and you need to get better. And you need to eat something.”
“Why?” This was a man who treated everyone with careless charm and if you were unlucky, like me, a bit of arrogant mockery. Why on earth was he looking after me?
Understanding my question, Cavendish gestured to the room. “Is there anyone else here to look after you?”
I could call Jared, but it would take him away from the farm and he needed to be there. “What do you want in return? The adaptation rights?”
His gaze narrowed and he opened his mouth before his lips pressed together, as if he’d thought better of it. A tense silence passed between us before he drawled lazily, “You need to eat and then if you’re able to stand, I’d suggest a shower, little mouse.”
Not long later, I took small bites of the fried egg on toast Cavendish had cooked up for me, all the while eyeing him while he eyed me. He’d pulled a chair into the room to sit by my bed and was now on guard, making sure I ate every bite of the breakfast. The whole thing continued to be surreal. I’d also never met anyone who didn’t squirm when you stared constantly at them without speaking, and weirdly, I found myself almost enjoying the challenge of staring him down. Cavendish was unmoved.
He’d been a little surlier when he’d returned with my breakfast, and I had a feeling I might have hurt his feelings when I’d suggested he was caring for me with an ulterior motive in mind. But that couldn’t be right. He never crossed me as the type who anyone could truly hurt. Or someone who would take care of another human being unless there was something in it for him.
He liked my books.
I tried not to show how much that meant to me. Even though he was a prick, he was still a talented prick whose work I admired.
And he liked my books.
I’d eaten almost the entire slice of toast and egg when I started to feel nauseated and exhausted again. “I’m done.”
Cavendish shook his head. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his hands clasped together on his washboard stomach, totally casual, as if looking after a flu-addled stranger was a normal occurrence.
Oddly, he didn’t feel like a stranger. I didn’t feel threatened by him in my space or awkward that he’d held me last night. Usually, the very thought of a strange man in my personal space would have sent me into shy convulsions.
“Aye, I am,” I insisted, pushing the plate away from me on the bed.
“You have two bites left. You can do it. Be a good girl.”
I scowled at him. Patronizing arsehole.
His lips twitched. “Food and fluids will help you recover faster.”
The thought of my manuscript, lying barely started on my computer and the deadline that loomed, made me reluctantly drag the plate back and quickly stuff down the rest of it. I’d barely finished when Cavendish reached over to take the plate, and I felt a violent tickle in my nose. I hurriedly reached for a hanky and managed to hold back the sneeze just long enough for Cavendish to get out of range.
And then I sneezed like it was a frickin’ Olympic sport. There was so much mucus, I wanted to die as I scrambled to wipe my nose and face. My cheeks flushed at the sudden knowledge that the Honorable Theodore Cavendish, a specimen of physical male perfection, was here to witness me at my worst. Right now, I probably looked like someone had rescued me from a hot, phlegmy swamp.