Page 71 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“Come on up. Take the elevator on your right. I’ll have it waiting for you.”

The lock on the front door buzzes, and I step into the lobby, which is lined with pale stone and brushed steel. The elevator to my right stands open. Inside, there’s no panel of buttons. The doors close, and the elevator carries me upward.

It opens directly into what appears to be a massive open loft, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall, exposed steel beams striping the ceiling, and polished concrete floors catching the pale winter sun. My attention lands on Seth as he pushes to his feet from one of two worn leather couches. He’s a little unsteady, a green hoodie hanging loose over gray sweatpants. His hair’s a mess, his eyes glassy, color high in his cheeks, all of which tugs at something protective in me.

“Ellie,” he rasps, his voice rough from sleep or fever. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Too late.” I step inside, and the elevator doors close behind me.

Only then, as I go to him, does the rest of the loft come into focus. Books are everywhere—stacked on end tables, leaning in towers by the windows, stockpiled on built-in bookcases. I think I found his safe haven. Books. A sleek kitchen runs the length of the far wall, with a narrow bar off to one side, and a dining table sits near the windows like an afterthought. Open double doors reveal another room, and beside it, a half wall of glass and steel divides an office from the rest of the space.

An ideal setup for the man who can’t stand to feel confined.

I set the bag of supplies and my tote on the coffee table next to Seth’s laptop, which sits open beside a notebook, calculations and notes scrawled across the page. Of course he’s been working. “Even sick and rumpled, you’re unfairly handsome.”

A tired smile curves his lips. “I’m glad you think so. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“You didn’t have to leave Australia for me.” I lean in and kiss his cheek. “And now you’ve infected me, so you might as well let me make you tea.”

He huffs a laugh that dissolves into a cough. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

“I doubt that.” I point to the couch. “Sit.”

He sinks down to the cushion, clearly too tired to argue.

“Blanket?” I ask.

“Bedroom.” He points to open double doors.

I head into the bedroom, which is outfitted with similar substantial furniture to his bedroom on the island. There are books piled on the nightstand, and the unmade bed tugs at my heartstrings. Mr. Tidy must really feel awful.

I snag a blue throw blanket that’s bunched up on the bed and carry it out to the living room, where Seth is sitting with his head back, eyes closed. I drape the blanket across his lap, and his eyes open, a small smile sliding into place.

He takes my hand, gently tugging me down beside him. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s better than dying alone.”

I bite back a laugh. For a man who can run half the world, he is hopelessly dramatic when he’s sick, and it’s completely endearing. “Let’s take dying off the table.” I feel his forehead with the back of my hand. He’s warm but not too hot. “Did you take anything for the fever?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Good thing I came prepared. Maybe we can avoid the hospital visit.” I reach into the bag and hand him one of the bottles of Gatorade I bought on the way here. Then I shake two Tylenols into his palm. As he takes them, I say, “Are you hungry? I brought soup and crackers.”

He shrugs like a petulant child.

“How about some hot tea with honey? It’ll soothe your throat.”

His eyes brighten, and he nods.

“Think you’ll be okay while I make it?”

“I guess.”

A laugh slips out as I push to my feet. He snags my hand, giving me a pitiful look. “Yes, Mr. Braden?”

“Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now, Ms. Nunnally?”

God, he’s even charming when he’s sick.

“Probably a lot since I’m your only hope for survival.”