Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Okay, not that he wears those either.
It’s just…the sweatpants are less charcoal and lighter grey. The kind that everyone online is going on and on about right now. At least he doesn’t have the backward baseball hat going on. His white T-shirt looks soft and thin. So thin that I can practically see the outline of his nipples and his abs. Between the shirt and the sweats, he’s slaying.
Slaying my ovaries.
My hormones.
My lady cave.
My nipples.
I quickly turn to check the bubbling pot on the stove. My face is still scarlet, my skin is two degrees off of sizzling, and my innards are drenched in sweat. Is that even physically possible? Today, it is.
I now have a perma-image burned in my brain. I never understood the sweatpants thing. I mean, sure, the guys online wear them because it outlines their dong. Not much mystery there, but I was always more turned off by that than anything. It’s just so…in your face.
On Warrick, it’s also in my face, minus the outline of a big hard schlong, because that definitely isn’t a thing. His sweatpants were grade-A vanilla. It’s the way they fit him, and combined with that T-shirt, it’s pretty much a—
“You don’t have to cook for me,” Warrick insists for what is probably the eight hundredth and forty-second time since I started this job.
“You need to eat something. I know you’re not feeling well, but half the fatigue is probably from the lack of calories.”
“It’s not even my stomach anymore,” he grunts, sounding truly awful.
I still can’t turn and look at him yet. Not when my face probably resembles a paint swatch in various shades of pink extending from pale all the way to fuchsia.
“It’s this headache. It has lovingly morphed itself into a migraine this morning.”
I turn the soup down to a simmer. Then, I pour him a glass of water and point at the couch, face be damned, I guess. “Sit down, please. I just saw this video last night while I was doom scrolling, explaining how soaking your feet in as hot of water as you can possibly take can help with migraine pain.”
He’s already frowning, probably because his eyes are so sensitive that they can barely deal with the light, but it only deepens. “What on earth is doom scrolling?”
“When you fall down into the rabbit hole of watching endless short videos when you should be sleeping or doing something productive.”
He grunts. “That doesn’t sound like a real thing.”
“I can assure you, it’s a problem—”
“I meant the hot water.” He heads out of the kitchen and walks through the open expanse of the house to drop down on the couch when I stubbornly fist my hands on my hips, indicating that I’m not going to take no for an answer.
“I don’t know if it is or not, but it’ll probably feel nice. Have you taken any medication yet?”
He shudders.
Right. I’m talking to a man here.
I get him two ibuprofen from the bottle in the cupboard and a glass of water. Then, I walk them over to the couch. “Take these, and I’ll get you some hot water. It’s worth a try. But if things don’t start improving soon, I think I should take you to the clinic again.”
“It’s a virus. There’s nothing they can do.”
“They could make you comfortable,” I say.
He gives an exaggerated humph, which tells me everything there is to know about what he thinks about that. It also gives me hope that he’s feeling better than I think he is.
I find a giant roaster in one of the cupboards. I have to stretch the tap over to fill it because it’s not even close to fitting in the sink. I’m extra careful carrying it across the house so that I don’t slop the steaming water over the side. It tries its best, becoming a violent roaster sea, but I manage to set it down in front of Warrick without incident.
He eyes it. Then he eyes me and scowls into his scowl lines that have scowl lines with scowl lines of their own.
I don’t even think. I drop down to my knees, take one foot, and slip it into the pan. I tested the water right before I brought it in here to make sure it wasn’t too hot. I don’t need any skeleton feet or burns on my watch. The shower incident, followed by the meatball crisping death, was bad enough, thank you very much.
I reach for his other foot, pausing when I realize what I’m doing. I’ve got my boss’ foot in my hands, and far from it being gross or weird, it’s strangely vulnerable. He has nice feet. They’re not all rough, and the nails aren’t doing weird things. Not even the one on the baby toe, which is usually notoriously out of control. Believe me, I’m speaking from experience.