His smooth words are like a familiar lullaby, soft and soothing in ways I’ve never experienced before. And when he finishes bending down and pressing his lips to my forehead, I almost sigh in contentment.
Or at least I think I almost do it, except when he chuckles, something tells me I actually sighed out loud.
“Rest, Charli. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
And just as quickly as he appeared in my doorway, he’s gone. The soft click of the front door lets me know I’m alone once more. I sip on the soup, the warmth sliding down my throat and making me smile. Quinn didn’t just grab my medicine but called in a quick order to the diner for me too. Not only that, but he also grabbed my favorite flavor of Gatorade.
I eat half the container of soup and about the same of the bread before replacing the lid on the container and putting it in the fridge for later. Taking the milkshake, I go to the counter and peek inside the bag. Four more bottles of Gatorade are there, and since they’re cold, I place those in the fridge also.
Cold and flu meds, pain reliever, nasal saline, and cough drops. That’s the extra stuff he picked up for me. I can’t believe he did this. I was with Richard for almost three years, and he never took care of me like this. The time I had the flu and was down for almost four days, he bitched about having to do the cooking and the cleaning, as if those duties were automatically my responsibility, whether I was well or not.
What a fuckstick.
But Quinn brought me all this stuff because he felt it could help me, and while I already have the cold medicine and pain reliever in my cabinet, it doesn’t go unnoticed that he still purchased it on the off chance I needed it.
Grabbing the milkshake, I take another long pull from the straw. The cold feels amazing as it slides down my throat, soothing the pain and bringing a smile to my face. A rare one. I haven’t felt like smiling since I started to feel sick Sunday. I definitely wasn’t smiling as I called all my clients from today and tomorrow and cancelled their appointments.
But one little visit from Quinn and I’m suddenly smiling.
Of course, that’s probably the strawberry milkshake talking. This thing isthatamazing.
Gathering up the cough drops, nasal spray, Gatorade, and shake, I take it all to the bedroom and set it on my nightstand before slipping into my bathroom to take some pain reliever and use the toilet. When I’m done, I wash my hands, take another drink of the milkshake, and climb into bed. I’m exhausted, my body relaxing as I position the blanket around my neck. I know Ishould drink a little more, but I just don’t have the energy right now. I need sleep.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t come easy. My thoughts are filled with Quinn, and that makes me fidgety. I have no business thinking about him in any way other than a family friend who helped me out. But I can’t stop feeling his hand against my forehead, followed by his lips. I replay it over and over again, until the medicine finally kicks in and I drift off to sleep.
It’s not a restful sleep.
Not with dreams of Quinn plaguing me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I tell Mom as she delivers another bowl of homemade soup.
It’s Friday, and even though I’m still coughing a bit, the pain in my ears and throat has started to subside. “I think we should push back your birthday dinner. Why don’t we do next Saturday? We can combine your birthday with Quinn’s.”
I want to roll my eyes, but Linda Miller isn’t a fan. “Why do we have to celebrate his birthday anyway? He’s not family,” I grumble, even though there’s no bite in my bark. We’ve celebrated Quinn’s birthday since he was in kindergarten, when Mom found out his parents didn’t do anything special for him at home or school. She stayed up late the night before and baked cupcakes with green icing, his favorite color, so he could take them to school and share with their classmates.
“Knock it off,” she chastises, placing the fresh soup in my fridge. “He’s as much a part of our family as anyone.”
“I mean, not really,” I grumble, unable to stop myself. Maybe if I bitch and moan about him, I’ll stop thinking about him in his boxer briefs. “Thank you for the soup.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies, bright and cheery. “Find any good shows on TV?”
Mom knows how well I do with idle time, as in not well at all. I don’t want to just sit around watching TV. I like to keep myself busy. “Daytime TV is crap,” I grumble.
She chuckles and nods. “It is. That’s why I stream when I’m home during the day.”
“I was going to dust and do laundry today,” I tell her.
“You will not.”
My mouth drops open as I take in her “mother” stance. Hands on hips, toes tapping on the floor, narrowed eyes letting me know she’s not pleased. “What?”
“You’re sick, Charlotte. You need rest.”
I open my mouth to argue but start coughing instead.
“My point exactly!” she proclaims, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of Gatorade. There’s only one bottle left from what Quinn brought Wednesday, so I mentally add a trip to the grocery store to my to-do list. “You need to just chill and rest. I can do your laundry and clean.”
