“Love you too.” Nick tossed his phone aside. Maybe she was right. His curtains were sort of ugly.
He plodded upstairs and found a blanket and then grabbed a pillow off his bed. After dumping everything on the couch, he powered down his laptop. His head hurt too much to be productive anyway. Maybe he’d watch some television. But first he should probably eat something. He hadn’t had anything since lunch.
He glanced at the kitchen and sighed. Chicken noodle soup was the only thing that sounded good, but he didn’t have any.
He could call his mom back. She’d bring him soup, but then she’d want to stay and fuss over him.
He’d just skip dinner.
He turned on the television and flipped through the channels. After settling on whatever was playing on ESPN, he got up and put more logs on the fire. His teeth chattered he was so cold.
When his phone rang again he hoped it was his mom so he could ask her to bring him some soup after all. He probably did have the flu.
The screen showed Shelby’s name, so he poked the little green button and said, “It’s early. I thought you were supposed to be wooing Mr. Wonderful tonight at his big welcome-home bash. Was that a bust?”
“Nope, we have a date on Sunday. We’re going to the game. But why does your voice sound so funny? Been screaming at the peons at work?”
“I think I have the flu.”
“Or, maybe Lisa cast a voodoo spell on you?”
He laughed. “No, and you owe me because I probably caught the bug at your restaurant yesterday. I’ll take payment in chicken soup or I’ll have to sue. Your choice.”
“I thought you never got sick, tough guy.”
“The clock’s ticking. What’s it going to be? The soup or my lawyer?”
“Because I was smart enough to get a flu shot, my immune system is impervious to your nasty germs, so you’re in luck. I’ll run by the café. Do you own a thermometer?”
“No. But I don’t need that, just soup. And maybe an éclair.”
“I have to stop by the drugstore anyway, so I’ll get you some supplies. I have your address from your application, so what’s this month’s secret gate code to gain entrance to your exclusive, snooty enclave?”
“Your family developed this subdivision, Shelby.”
“Not my family, me. It was my project. And what’s your point?”
He’d nearly forgotten Shelby had a master’s degree in business and used to work for her uncle. Somehow he couldn’t picture her being happy doing anything other than what she did now. It must’ve taken a lot of courage to leave and pursue her dreams.
“You should probably thank me for all that commission you must’ve made when I wrote that big check for the lot. The code’s pound four-two-three.”
“Jo’ll thank you. It’s what I used to invest in her café. See you in a bit.”
“’Kay.” He closed his dry, burning eyes, laid his aching head onto the back of the coach, and smiled. Shelby hadn’t hesitated for a moment to come to his rescue. And if she wanted to stay and fuss over him for a while, he might just have to let her.
CHAPTER TEN
“Chester thought taking a sick day off from school would be fun. But it was icky and boring.”
Chester’s Sick Day
Shelby kicked Nick’s front door with her foot as she juggled the bags of sickroom supplies in her arms.
When the huge wooden door swung open, Nick stood before her in gray sweats, thick socks, his hair standing on end, and he still looked cute. It was downright ridiculous.
His eyebrows spiked. “Damn, Shelby. I bet Greg didn’t stand a chance once he saw you in that.”
Okay, that answered that question. But now she was even more confused and needed his help. “All part of the plan.”
She passed by him and then tilted her head in wonder. She’d never guess his furnishings would be so elegant. He must’ve hired an interior decorator. “Nice. But I hate the curtains.”
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” Nick crawled onto a barstool at the granite countertop in the kitchen and frowned as she unloaded her bags. “What’s all this crap?”
“I’ve got nighttime liquid, daytime liquid, Popsicles, and ibuprofen.” She dug into the next bag. “Sports drinks to stay hydrated, and what all ailing men need, Sports Illustrated. Swimsuit edition.”
Nick grunted and laid his forehead on top of his folded arms. “Just soup, Shelby!”
“That too, Mr. Grouchy. I’ll nuke it for you.”
After she put the soup into the stainless steel microwave, she opened the new digital thermometer. Yanking a handful of his thick hair, she lifted his head up. When he opened his mouth to protest, she stuck it in.