“Can you get me my bag too? I dropped it by the door. I wasn’t finished with my computer.”
Pausing, Josh looked at me again. Though I felt a little better, I guess I still wasn’t looking well enough for a computer. He nodded anyway.
“Thank you,” I repeated, watching him turn toward the door.
I let my head loll to the side on my pillow as my eyes followed his long steps out the door and into the quiet apartment, where I heard the cabinet open and a glass being filled with water from the tap.
I was asleep before he got back.
seventeen
The scentof warm coffee and maybe cinnamon hung in the air as I opened my bedroom door. The living room was quiet, except for the low hum of music from someone’s phone.
I shuffled into the kitchen like a ghost freshly risen from the grave, hair a mess, wearing the same sweatshirt I’d thrown on sometime after waking up. I’d huddled in the bathroom again and then dragged myself out for the final time at around two a.m.
Josh stood by the counter in soft joggers and a henley with sleeves pushed to his elbows, pouring a glass of water with the kind of casual grace that made my half-dead body feel personally offended.
“Hey,” he said, looking up when he noticed me. “How are you feeling?”
“Oddly … fine.” My voice came out hoarse, a surprise even to me.
He walked over and held out the glass. “That’s a relief. I was ready to call an ambulance if you didn’t move by noon.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, taking the water. My fingers brushed his, and I tried not to think about it too hard. “Gina left already?”
“Headed out a few hours ago.”
I remembered, at one point last night, she had gently knocked on the bathroom door to check on me, though I wasn’t one for much conversation at the time. She mentioned something about having someone curse Jackson.
I hadn’t told her not to.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me as I slowly sipped.
“Once you get changed,” he said casually, “and finish your water, I have a question for you.”
Unable to stall anymore, the glass empty, I looked at him. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you hate fun.” He tilted his head toward the stove clock. “If you’re up for it, that is.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Defineup for it.”
“Ever heard of speed-wrapping holiday gifts?”
I blinked at him. “Speed … wrap?”
He gave a sheepish grin. “Okay, so that’s not technically the official name. But from what I hear, that’s what it turns into after the first ten minutes.”
“So, you’ve never done this before?”
“No, but it counts as one of my evening extracurriculars that I’m supposed to check off before the school year ends. I’m two behind.”
I gasped in mock betrayal and lightly swatted the back of his arm. “You’re using me to score teacher points?”
“Absolutely not.” His grin widened. “I’m using you to win the totally unofficial—and very serious—gift-wrapping face-off at the school’s holiday fundraiser.”
I stared at him, partially amused, even more skeptical.
“If you were still sick,” he added, “I might have sweetened the deal with rumors of a cookie exchange and hot chocolate bar.”
