even though no one else is here and I should probably be saving my voice. “Such elegant scarves.”
I hear a knock on my door and sit up straight in bed. Annie’s not in town right now. Uncle Don always sends a polite text or call rather than coming up to my apartment. Mikey Danger is working, and even though I texted him, Can’t hang out later; too sick, he hasn’t responded. I mean, he’s probably driving his car and making deliveries. It’s fine.
Since I live in the carriage house, solicitors don’t ever knock on my door. Which leaves one person: Milo. Maybe Milo needs me for something; maybe he was visiting Dad and there was a problem!
I swing my feet over the bed and get up too quickly, feeling dizzy. “Ugh,” I say, holding my head in my hands. I cross the apartment in a few steps, then swing open the door, only to come face-to-face with someone who is decidedly not my twin brother.
It’s Nick, and I’m staring directly at his mouth, because I assumed I’d be meeting Milo’s eyes.
“Um . . . hi?” I say, my eyes moving up to meet his.
“Hi,” Nick says, a smile forming for a second before he wipes it away. I look down and remember that I’m wearing pajamas, my hair is in a truly unfortunate and lopsided topknot, and I’m not wearing any makeup. Not my signature bold lip; not my typical winged eyeliner; not the blush that gives my deathly pale skin the slight touch of pink it needs for me to not look like a sexy ghost.
My non-penciled-in brows contract. “Why are you here?”
Nick lowers his head to meet my eyes. “I’m checking on you. You said you were sick.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you check on Tobin last week when he was sick?”
“No, but I knew he wasn’t really sick.”
“Touché.”
Nick gestures toward the sky with one hand. “It’s starting to rain.”
“Are you asking to come in?”
He sighs. “If I may be so bold, Chloe.”
I smile with faux-sweetness and step aside, gesturing as if I’m a butler. “Come in, sir. Welcome to my humble abode. Wait, what’s in the bag?”
I close the door as Nick walks to the table. He sets a paper bag on it and pulls out a Tupperware container. “Soup.”
“You brought me soup? Like, you went to the store and purchased soup for me?”
Nick looks at me quizzically. “You’ve set such a low bar for the people in your life. No, I didn’t buy you soup from a store. I made soup.”
I sink down into one of the chairs at the table, feeling dizzy. I could certainly blame it on whatever strain of the flu I have, but also Nick’s behavior is making me feel kind of light-headed. It’s not that no one’s ever made me soup before—Uncle Don makes a mean zuppa toscana. But for reasons I’d rather not examine, soup doesn’t evoke quite the same feelings when Don makes it for me.
“What kind of soup? Chicken noodle?”
“Even better. Chicken tortilla. Extra spicy to clear out those sinuses.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna get a bowl for this.”
“Let me—” I attempt to stand up and fall back into the chair. “Whoa.”
“Nope.” Nick places an arm around me and easily hoists me out of the chair, directing me toward my bed. “Get back in bed and let me take care of this.”
I want to make a joke about how the two of us have once again found ourselves in a situation involving a bed, but I’m struck by what he said. Let me take care of this. Nick is taking care of me. There’s a person in my kitchen reheating soup in a bowl for the express purpose of making me feel better.
“I can do it.” I attempt to get up again, but this time my traitorous body doesn’t move. I let my arms flop back down at my sides. “This sucks.”
A few cabinet drawers bang shut, and even though I can only sort of see him over the half wall, I can tell Nick’s looking for something in my tiny kitchen.
“Spoons?” he calls.
“Right drawer, by the sink,” I croak.
“You’re extremely disorganized,” he says as the microwave beeps and starts its comforting hum. “This kitchen is a nightmare.”
I groan. “Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, Bobby Flay.”
“Watch it,” he calls. “I’m gonna take this soup over to Uncle Don.”
“You wouldn’t,” I attempt to say, but my words are drowned out as I blow my nose.