Page 111 of Once Upon a Fall

Dean takes the bowl away when I’ve eaten half and can’t possibly eat any more. Then he brings me some medicine and water and helps me take it.

“You’re a very handsome magical fairy,” I say as I snuggle into the pillow and he tucks the covers in around me.

He laughs softly. Then I feel a quick brush of lips on my forehead before the door clicks shut, and I drift off again.

The next day I take a shower. And I feel like a new woman, like I’ve turned a corner and am through the worst of whatever I have.

I’m pretty sure I’ve heard both my dad and Dean use the word flu. Which is ridiculous because I don’t get the flu. I haven’t had it in years.

I think it’s probably the plague. That makes much more sense.

“Rosie?” Dean asks from outside my bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m . . . fine.”

I pick up my brush and try to work it through my wet hair, but even lifting my arm feels harder than it should. By the time I get halfway through one side, my arm is shaking.

Okay, so I’m not fine. Because all of a sudden, my limbs feel heavy and the floor shifts under my feet.

“Whoa,” I say.

“Rosie?” Dean’s voice sounds a little more panicked than necessary. Because I’m fine. I might just need to sit down on the floor of this bathroom.

I knock something off the counter, and it topples to the floor.

“I’m coming in,” Dean warns.

I panic that he’s going to see me naked but then remember that I put a robe on.

He opens the door to find me holding onto the counter for dear life.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he says, putting an arm around my waist and guiding me back to the bed.

“I smelled like death, and you know that,” I tell him.

He chuckles, walking me slowly to the bed. A bed he made up with fresh sheets while I was in the shower.

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t get a chance to brush my hair. It’ll be all tangled if I don’t.”

I don’t think he’s listening. He helps me get back into bed as chills work their way down my body. I roll over to my side, my back toward him as he tucks me in.

“I need to brush . . . my hair,” I say as my teeth rattle.

“Hold on,” he tells me.

A few seconds later, I feel bristles run lightly through my hair. Dean takes his time, carefully working through the tangles, and with every slow pass of the brush, I feel myself relax a little more. It feels amazing. Like the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. I can’t remember the last time someone brushed my hair like this.

I never want my magical fairy to leave.

Friday morning, I wake up and realize I can sit up without getting dizzy, my limbs no longer feel like they’re filled with wet cement, and I can actually make it to the bathroom on my own. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. Which is both good and bad.

Good, because I think I’m through the worst of it; bad, because I am absolutely mortified.

Dean took care of me.

For the past four days I haven’t been able to do anything for myself, and Dean did it all. He slept in the room, gave me medicine, took care of the inn, managed the guests . . . brushed my hair.

Oh, gosh. He brushed my hair.