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“Don’t flatter me so.” I dumped the napkin in the popcorn box at my feet. “I’m not sick.”
One of his brows slid up. “You’re sure about that?”
“Positive.”
∞∞∞
Slumped in my office chair the following afternoon, I silently winced as I swallowed around my dry, aching throat. “I think I’m sick,” I said, my voice a little raspy.
“Iknowyou’re sick,” said Sabrina, standing in front of my desk, her arms folded, a stern expression on her face. “The coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and glassy eyes gave it away. Which is why I told you to go home the very moment you first got here. What on Earth possessed you to come in today?”
“I felt fine earlier.”
She gifted me an impatient look. “No, you didn’t. Pretending you’re well won’tmakeyou well, you know. The power of positivity only goes so far.”
I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead. “Stop shouting, my head hurts.”
“I’m not shouting.”
“And stop glaring at me.” I paused as a cough racked my throat. Ugh. “You’re supposed to be sympathetic.”
“Tough love is more my thing, you know that.” She gestured at the door. “Go home. Get some rest. And stay there until you’re better.”
I pouted. “It feels like admitting defeat.”
Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Just get your ass out of here. I’ll handle everything while you’re gone. You can’t exactly go meet clients and vendors looking all disgusting anyway.”
I felt my brows draw together. “I don’t look disgusting.” Ifeltit, though.
“No, you don’t,” she admitted. “But I’m feeling mean because I resent that you manage to look cute while ill. It isn’t fair.Ilook like the living dead when sickness strikes.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re lying, and we both know it.”
I gave a weak shrug. “It seemed like the nice thing to do.” The last word came out on a croak as another upcoming cough scratched at the back of my throat. Oh, hell.
Ever the drama queen, she reared back when the cough finally burst out of me. “Get out of here. Go on, go.”
I pushed out of my seat. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I freaking insist.”
Seeing that enough time had passed for me to take my next round of painkillers, I chugged them down with water before gathering my stuff together. Only then did I leave the building and head home.
Pulling into my driveway, I frowned at the sight of Dax’s car in its usual spot. It would normally be another three hours or so before his workday ended. Maybe he’d just popped home to grab something.
My shoulders drooping, I pretty much shuffled into the villa, my footsteps dragging. I found Dax on the patio reading something on his cell phone, a bottle of water on the table in front of him. “You’re home early,” I noted as his gaze snapped to mine.
“So are you.” He arched a superior brow. “Finally willing to admit that you’re sick?”
I narrowed my eyes at the gorgeous bastard. He’d earlier recommended I take the day off, swearing I’d regret it if I didn’t and predicting I’d return home earlier than usual. I’d insisted I was “fine.” Over and over, actually. He’d eventually shaken his head and left for work.
“Do we really have to talk about such things?” I asked.
Humor flickered in his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Not liking the gloating note in his voice, I gave him a haughty sniff … which came out sounding a little bubbly, since my nose was partially blocked.
