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Tyler
It was Wednesday, and I’d blown through my work at warp speed so I could see Marisa as soon as I could.
We texted a bit last night after I finally got home. And again this morning before I went into the office. Hell-bent on getting to her place, I was like a little kid waiting for the bell to ring at the end of the school day.
The sight of Marisa before me halted me.
She was disheveled, looked ashen, and her eyes looked like she’d been crying. She looked nothing like her usual glowing, gorgeous self. What’s wrong?” I asked, scooting inside the door.
“I just got home a little while ago. I should have texted you, but my mind is so foggy, I can’t think straight.”
My alpha-male superior need to protect went into overdrive. “Is everything okay?”
“I think I’m sick.”
Thankful it was an illness that had her looking like this, and not something else, I cupped her face. Feeling extra warmth to her skin, I placed the back of my hand to her forehead. “You’re really hot,” I told her.
“Aww. Aren’t you sweet? You certainly know how to make a sick woman feel a little better.”
Ignoring the inference of herhotness, I told her, “Sweetie, you have a fever. Have you taken your temperature?”
“No. I just know I feel like crap. Started yesterday. I should’ve texted you. Told you not to come over.”
Ignoring the statement—there was no way in hell I would be anywhere but right here with her—I said, “Where’s your thermometer?”
“In the kitchen.”
It was odd for someone to keep a thermometer in the kitchen, but I went with it. “Where’s it at?”
Marisa laughed, then coughed. “The only thermometer I have is a meat thermometer. Maybe we should check the temperature of your meat.” She laughed at her own joke and winced, putting her hands to either side of her head. “Oh, it even hurts to laugh.”
I chuckled, shook my head, and brought her into the crook of my arm. An odd, unpleasant smell made its way to my nostrils. “Ugh.” I pinched my nose with my fingers. “What’s that smell?” I asked with my nose plugged against the atrocity floating in the air.
“I’m just making some tea,” she said, leaving my embrace to the pot on the stove.
I peered over her shoulder into the pot she was steeping on the stove. It had chunks of something floating in it. “Tea? That doesn’t smell like tea.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s herbal tea.”
“Yeah, well, it smells like ass.” I grimaced, turning my face up as I tried to avoid vomiting. “What the hell’s in it?”
She indicated the ingredients she had on the counter. “Ginger, lemon honey, fennel, and anise.”
“Totally smells like it.”
“Like what?”
“Anus.”
She chuckled lightly, probably trying to avoid the pain she faced a moment ago. “I said anise, not anus.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“It’s supposed to help with respiratory infections.”
“Smells like it’s gonna give you an infection.”
She shrugged. “My friend swears by it. Said it’s very popular in Chinese and folk medicinal practices. I’ll try anything to stop feeling like this.”
