Reckless Hearts (13 page)

I
hang up, fighting guilt. Blowing off Will isn’t an excuse, I
tell myself. I
am
sick, and lord knows I wouldn’t want to be around me right now.

I
go meet Annie and Liv in the garden. “Ready to make a move?”
I ask.

Annie
smiles happily, looking around. “I could sit here all day.
That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Very
good. But you should sleep on it,” I tell her gently. “Take
your time, and think it through. We’re in no hurry.”

“See?”
Liv interrupts. “I told you she wouldn’t push you into
something just to make the sale.”

I
sneeze again. “I should put that on my business cards.”

Annie
tuts at me. “You need to get back to bed.”

“But
we have another place to view. I’ll be fine,” I promise
again, but she just guides me out the door.

“No
offence, my dear, but you’re in no state to be working.
Besides, I don’t need to see anywhere else. You go take it
easy, and we’ll talk tomorrow about making an offer.”

I’m
in no state to disagree. I say my goodbyes to Annie and Liv, and make
it back home, my head pounding worse than ever. Every step takes
Herculean effort, and all I want to do is crawl into bed, but I
manage to change into sweatpants and my slubbiest shirt. I’m
just making tea when the doorbell rings.

I
shuffle to the door. “Whoever you are, please just leave me in
peace—”

I
stop. Will’s on my front step with a bag of groceries and a
concerned look on his too-damn-perfect face. “What are you
doing here?” I ask, torn between being glad to see him and
wanting to slam the door in his face. I look like a zombie, spraying
germs with every sneeze. The last thing I want is him to see me like
this!

“I
thought you might need some TLC,” he says, stepping inside.
“And clearly, I was right.”

He
drops a kiss on my forehead, then frowns and presses the back of his
hand to my cheek. “You’re burning up. Do you have a
fever? Have you drunk enough water today?”

“Mneugh,”
I manage to whimper, feeling pathetic. I know I should send him away,
but my whole body is aching now, and all I want is to just curl up on
the floor.

“Poor baby.” Will
grins. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Before
I can protest, he sets the groceries down, picks me up in his arms,
and carries me down the hall to my bedroom.

“I
bet this isn’t what you had in mind, taking me to bed,” I
manage to make a feeble joke as he sets me in the middle of the
mattress, and plumps up my pillows. “You’re not supposed
to be seeing me like this—” I sneeze. “All snotty
and gross and sick. It’s not—” I sneeze again.
“Sexy,” I finish weakly, sinking back into the pillows.

“Sure
you are.” Will tucks my duvet around me. “You get some
rest. I’ll be downstairs, cooking up something to help that
head.”

“Uh
huh,” I murmur, already drifting off. My eyes fall shut, and I
feel his lips on my cheek, the barest whisper of a kiss. Then his
footsteps tap down the hall. I sink into the softness of my sheets,
listening to the sound of cabinets opening and closing and pans
rattling on the stove. Despite my aching limbs and the pounding in my
head, I feel . . . comforted. It’s nice
having someone here taking care of me, even if Will is the last
person on my list.

The
afternoon breeze slips through the open windows, and I drift in and
out of sleep for the rest of the day. I’m not sure how long I’m
out of it, only that it’s getting dark when I surface, my
throat dry and my stomach rumbling for something to eat. Something
smells amazing, so I manage to get out of bed and pad down the hall
to the bathroom; rinsing my face with cold water before I venture
further, into the living room.

Will’s
sitting with his feet up on the coffee-table, sketching something in
a workbook. The radio’s on low, playing some jazz band, and
that delicious smell is wafting from the kitchen, filling the room
with warmth and fragrant herbs.

I
pause, my chest tightening. Everything about this scene is so
relaxed, so homey, I almost wish I could freeze time just like this.
Then Will looks up.

“She
rises,” he says, giving a lazy grin. He puts his book aside.

“No,
don’t get up—” I protest, but he’s already
coming over.

“Feeling
any better?” Will checks my forehead again.

I
make a face. “Define ‘better.’ What’s that
smell?” I ask hopefully. “Did you order in?”

Will
smiles. “Even better. Chicken soup, my mom’s recipe. It’s
ready, but didn’t want to wake you, you were pretty out of it,”
he adds, leading me to the couch. “I’m surprised you
managed to sleep through your snoring, though. Either that, or a bear
decided to join you for a nap.”

“I
don’t snore!” I protest weakly, settling on the couch. He
laughs.

“Sure
you don’t.”

Will
goes to the kitchen to fix me a bowl, and I glance at the workbook he
was sketching in. He’s working on new furniture designs, a cool
table made from wood and industrial steel. I can’t help flip
through the pages, impressed. There are some beautiful pieces here,
and it’s clear from every line and drawing that he’s
invested in every idea.

“OK,
I think I’ve got it right, but don’t hold it against me
if there’s too much salt.” Will comes back, carrying a
tray with a bowl of soup and some bread alongside. “I had to
call my mom to get the recipe. It’s a family secret, so don’t
even ask.”

“You
called your mom?” I sit up as he places the tray in my lap. I
blink, not sure how to feel about that. “What did you . . . ?
I mean, what did you say?”

“Just
that it was for a deserving cause.” Will sits beside me and
hands me a spoon. “I swear, this recipe makes everything
better. It even helped when I broke my arm in sixth grade.”

“Impossible.”
I smile, then spoon up a mouthful. “Or, possible,” I
correct myself, tasting the miraculous soup. It’s savory and
rich and hearty all at once. Will smiles.

“Now
you see what I mean.”

I
eat half the bowl without pausing for breath. When I look up, Will is
still watching me. I flush, feeling self-conscious. He must think I’m
a sick, pathetic mess right now. “Thank you,” I tell him
gratefully. “You’re sweet to have stopped by, but you
don’t need to stay now. You’ve probably got things to do,
and this is more than enough.”

“Why,
planning to kick me out and party?” Will teases.

I
give a weak laugh. “More like set up camp here on the couch and
watch Bravo.”

“Sounds
good to me.” Will kicks his feet up on the coffee table again
and reaches for the remote. He catches my eye. “And no, I don’t
have anywhere more important to be. Here is just fine with me.”

He
puts the TV on, and I slowly finish the rest of my soup, relaxing.
Despite everything, it’s nice having him here. He’s so
strong, and stable, and
capable
.
When was the last time a guy came and made me soup?

How
about never.

I
put the tray aside and snuggle deeper into the couch. I feel a little
better, but my throat still hurts, and my head is aching. Will pats
his lap, so I swing my feet up, laying almost horizontal. I let out
another whimper, almost disappearing into my blankets. “I hate
being sick.”

“I’d
never have guessed.” Will grins, casually starting to rub my
feet.

Mmm,
that feels good.

“I
guess at least I won’t have to go to dinner with my parents,”
I sigh, trying to look on the bright side.

“What’s
wrong with that?” he asks.

I
pause, realizing I’ve revealed too much. “Just . . . I
hate watching them pretend like everything’s great, that’s
all,” I answer at last. Will looks curious, but I shake my
head, already regretting mentioning it at all. “It’s
nothing. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Alright,”
he says, not pushing. He beckons to me. “Come here.”

“I’m going to get
germs all over you,” I warn, and he laughs.

“Do
your worst.”

I’m
tired now, and his arms look too inviting, so I give up my protests
and swivel around, moving so I’m snuggled against him, lying in
his arms.

God,
it feels good. I exhale with a sigh, resting my head against his
chest, relaxing into the warmth of his soft embrace. Will gently
strokes my hair as the TV plays in a blur across the room. I feel
sleep taking over me again, and through the lull, I feel a sudden
wave of envy for my friend Eva, having this with her fiancé
all the time. Is this what it feels like to be taken care of? To be
held like this, to fit just right in the crook of his shoulder, his
hand smoothing softly over my hair.

Is
this what it would feel like to be loved?

My
heart shivers in my chest. It’s just the cough syrup talking, I
tell myself, as I drift off to sleep in his arms.

Will’s
soup has truly miraculous properties, because I wake up the next
morning with a clear head and only a slight sniffle left from my
sickbed. There’s a note on the table, too:

You
and the bear get your rest. Call me when you feel better. x

I’m
happy to be feeling human again, but this means I have no excuse to
avoid the dreaded anniversary dinner. Mom wants us to spend some
“girl time” together before the meal, so she picks me up
and we head up the coast to Beachwood Bay, another pretty town on the
water, to get our hair done before meeting Dad.

“I’m
so glad we have a chance to catch up,” Mom beams, settled back
in the salon chair. “Remember when we used to have our quality
time when you were younger, going shopping and getting our nails
done? I feel like it’s been ages since we really talked.”

“You
can come visit me too, you know,” I point out. “You only
moved a couple of hours away.”

“I
could say the same.” Mom gives me a look as the stylist comes
to hover near me.

“If
you wanted, I’ll just give those bangs a trim,” he says
hopefully, but I shake my head.

“Sorry,
my friend would kill me.” Lottie is my stylist, and really
possessive of her handiwork; once I got a dye job in the city, and
she guilt-tripped me for a week. I go pick out some nail polish
instead, and settle in the chair beside Mom as they blow out her neat
cap of ash blonde hair.

“How
is Lottie doing?” Mom asks. “That boy of hers, I swear,
he gets cuter every day.”

I
smile. “And more rebellious. She’s good, I’m trying
to get her to date,” I add, soaking my fingertips in the bowl
of warm water. “I was thinking of trying to get her and Sawyer
together for a while, but I don’t know . . . .
They have more of a big brother-little sister vibe going on.”

“Sawyer,
he’s that nice vet, isn’t he?” Mom shoots me a
look. “You could do worse than spending some time with him
yourself.”

I
check the clock on the wall. “One hour and twenty-two minutes,”
I announce. “That’s how long it’s taken you to bug
me about my love life.”

Mom
laughs. “Did I really make it so long? I should get a prize.”

I
can’t help giggling too. It really is a lost cause trying to
get her to back off and mind her own business. Still, I must be
feeling the effects of that cough medicine, because I find myself
telling her, “I’m . . . sort of
seeing someone.”

Mom’s
head whips around, and right away, I regret the slip. “It’s
only been a couple of dates,” I add quickly. If one dinner and
a dip in the creek even count as dates. “It’s nothing
serious. Honest.”

“Does
‘nothing serious’ have a name?”

“Will,”
I answer, trying to ignore the curl in my stomach at the thought of
him. “Will Montgomery.”

A
smile plays on the edge of Mom’s lips. “And does this
Will have a job at all?”

I
flush. “What are we, in an Austen novel? Next thing you’ll
be asking about his income and ‘prospects.’ ”

“That
depends if he has any.” Mom smiles. “Oh hush, I’ll
mind my own business. But I thought you were looking peppier than
usual.”

“It’s
called under-eye concealer,” I reply, embarrassed. “Like
I said, it’s early.”

“That
doesn’t mean you can’t know,” Mom replies. “I
knew right from my first date with your father he would be the one
for me.” She gets a faraway smile, telling me about their date
for what must be the hundredth time. I feel a pang, watching her, and
I wonder if she’s trying to convince herself, or if she still
really believes it—that his betrayal was a blip in the grand
love story of their lives. She may have moved on, but every time she
brings up their happiness, I can’t help remembering—and
it’s only going to get worse, once we’re all at dinner
together.

They
finish up her hair, and she goes to change out of her robe. My phone
buzzes with a text; it’s Will.

How’s
the bear?

SAVE
ME,
I text back, about
to write more when Mom appears again.

“Is
that him?” She tries to look over my shoulder at my phone. “It
is, I can tell from that goofy smile. What’s he doing?”

“Nothing!”
I shove my phone back in my bag. “And it wasn’t him,”
I lie, “it was . . . a client. And I don’t
have a goofy smile.”

“Of
course you don’t, sweetheart.” Mom pats my arm like she
doesn’t believe me. “I just talked to your father, he’s
on his way. We’ve got some more time before our reservation,”
she adds. “How about we walk around and do a little shopping?
There are some cute stores here.”

I
nod, glad to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. “Whatever
you want, Mom. It’s your day.”

We
browse around town for a while, then go meet my dad at the restaurant
at seven. It’s a rustic, relaxed place with gorgeous views
overlooking the water. “Here are my girls,” he greets us,
beaming. “Don’t you both look pretty tonight?”