Walk of Shame (Love Unexpectedly 4)

I should have known when I’d fallen asleep during Enchanted. I never miss Giselle and Robert’s happy ending.

I halfheartedly extend my arm toward the nightstand, where my cellphone sits, wondering if I can talk Marley into coming over and bringing medicine and Gatorade. But my arm drops well before it reaches the phone. It would take way too much energy.

I wonder how Andrew’s feeling this morning. He fell asleep on the couch even before me, but not before I’d forced him to down three of the flavored sparkling waters I’d bought for him. I’d tried for the Gatorade, but he’d grumbled something about artificial flavors and coloring. Typical.

What I wouldn’t give for some of that Gatorade right now. Or the sparkling water.

The soup, on the other hand, sounds nasty. All food does. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. I’m not even sure I’ll live.

I pull the covers over my head and wait for death.

I’m not certain how much time passes after I brace myself to start seeing the white light, but somewhere through my head-pounding, fever-induced misery, I think I hear a knock.

Yeah, no chance. I can’t even bring myself to lift my head, much less somehow maneuver my body out of my bed.

But my self-protective flight-or-fight instincts are stronger than the flu, because when I hear my front door open, I somehow manage to sit upright in bed, my heart pounding in fear.

A second later, a six-foot-two silhouette appears in my doorway. “You really should lock the deadbolt, Georgiana.”

I groan and flop back down onto the bed. “You.”

“Me,” Andrew says.

“How’d you get in?”

“Convinced Charles you’d asked me to feed your cat.”

“And he believed that I’d let you feed my cat?” I ask. “Everyone who works here knows we hate each other.”

“I love that that’s what you’re incredulous about, and not the fact that I made up a cat you don’t have.” He pauses. “Do you?”

“Allergic,” I mutter.

Andrew’s all the way in my bedroom now, standing beside my bed. It’s mostly pitch-black, but he’s turned on a light from the kitchen, and I can tell he’s wearing a suit, clearly on his way to work.

“No gym clothes,” I say on a croak.

“Not feeling a hundred percent yet,” he says, bending down to set his briefcase against the nightstand, “so I’m not up to bench pressing today. But I’m well enough to catch up on some things at the office.”

“You got your wish,” I say, shivering violently as I roll onto my side.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, pulling the sheet and then the comforter up over my shoulder, tucking them under my chin before gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed. “What wish is that?”

“Killing me,” I say. “You said the other day you were going to kill me, and you have. Death by flu, transmitted by kiss.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, his tone amused. “Truly. But…pretty good kiss, though.”

I sigh and rub my cheek against the pillow. “Pretty good kiss.”

My head still hurts, my body’s still cold, but somehow I don’t feel quite as bad as I did just a couple minutes ago, and my eyes close. For the first time in hours I feel like I might actually be able to fall asleep.

“Have you taken any medicine?” he asks.

“Hmm?” I pry my eyes back open.

“Something to reduce the fever? Help with the head?”

I try to shake my head, but I’m not really sure I move at all. “Ran out of Tylenol a couple weeks ago. Forgot to replace.”