I’m torn between allowing him to do so and taking them up front to his wife. Honestly, it’ll probably take longer to go up front, since Edna Feldman is a master chatter. Plus, she’ll zero in on the fact I’m buying items for someone clearly not feeling well and try to get the details out of me.
“If you don’t mind,” I tell him, setting my basket on the counter.
“I don’t mind at all. Easier this way, running one transaction,” he replies, scanning all my purchases and placing them in a large paper sack. He even double bags it, since I have several bottles of Gatorade in there.
“No Sommer today, huh?” I ask to fill the time.
“Nope, she’s always off on Wednesdays,” he replies as he scans. “I gotta hire another tech. I’m getting too old to work by myself like this,” he says with a chuckle, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or being serious.
“Thanks, Jerry,” I reply, signing my name and handing over the slip of paper from running my credit card.
“No problem, Quinn. Have a good one.”
I’m off, waving in greeting to those I pass, but not stopping to chat the way I might any other time. I stop at my truck and throw my purchases in the front seat. Then, I make my way to the diner to grab the soup I ordered.
Finally, I’m back in my truck and heading to Charli’s place, and the closer I get, the more anxious I am to help her.
I just pray her claws are retracted.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Charli
I hear a faint knock on the door, but I don’t move. Camden has the code, so why he’s knocking is beyond me. I’m lying in bed, my face buried in my pillow to try to block out the sunlight still filtering through my blinds. My head is pounding, my throat’s dry and painful, and my ears feel like they’re going to burst. Not to mention the tightness in my chest from the start of an upper respiratory infection.
I’m glad Oaklee talked me into going to see Dr. Houston. Ever since I woke up Sunday morning, I progressively felt worse and worse. The cough started Monday and the fever on Tuesday. When the stabbing pain hit my ears and I had a hard time catching my breath this morning, I finally agreed to go.
I hate being sick. Not only do I have to cancel appointments—appointments clients are really looking forward to—but I’m not the greatest patient. I don’t sit idly well, and we all know rest is a key ingredient to getting over whatever ails you. Fortunately for me, I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to take more medicine, so sitting around getting mad because I’m being forced to take it easy isn’t a problem at the moment.
“Charli?”
That voice.
It’s all too familiar. I’d know Quinn’s soft, yet gravelly tone anywhere. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask without lifting my face from my pillow.
“I volunteered. Camden had a trailer full of material for his garage, so I said I’d run and grab your scripts and a few supplies,” he says, sounding much closer than when he called my name.
“I don’t need anything,” I mutter, knowing that’s a lie.
“Well, I brought you soup from the diner. Jeff sends his well wishes. He threw in a strawberry milkshake and a thick slice of fresh sourdough bread when he heard you weren’t feeling well.”
I groan, turning on my side and cracking open my eyes. Thankfully, he kept the lights off, so it doesn’t take much for my eyes to adjust. “What kind of soup?”
“Cream of mushroom and barley,” he says, and my stomach growls.
“Gimme,” I mutter.
Quinn chuckles. “You wanna go into the kitchen to eat?”
I sigh, knowing I should. The last thing I want is to wake up, covered in breadcrumbs and droplets of soup marring my pajamas. Throwing the comforter off, I stand up, instantly cold. It’s not cold in here, but with this low-grade fever, I’m freezing.
“Uhh, Charli?”
There’s something in his voice. It’s panic mixed with desire. “Huh?”
“You’re, uh…”
