Dear Diary (16 page)

“When’s he going to be here?” Michelle asked as Rory arranged the asparagus vinaigrette and tropical fruit salad on the table. The dishes to be heated were lined up for the microwave.

“Soon. Any minute.”

“Oh, God. I’ve got to get out of here. I look terrible.” Michelle was in motion instantly, then stopped. She came back to Rory and smiled at her a little sadly. “You made me forget for a little while. Thanks.”

“I should be thanking you.” She waved an arm at the beautiful array of food that now occupied the counter space where the cookbooks had been.

Michelle laughed. “Don’t tell Nick the truth.”

“Never.”

“Have fun,” she said, and dashed out the door into the dark and threatening evening.

Rory glanced at the digital clock on her microwave. Nick was late. Not a lot late, just a little. Traffic, she decided, wrinkling her nose. Seattle was a mess on Friday nights.

She smiled as she imagined his look of surprise when he discovered her “cooking.” The caterer Michelle had recommended was even better than Rory could have hoped for. The salads were an aesthetic delight. Tender green asparagus spears and bright red cherry tomatoes; exotic mangoes and papaya and kiwi mixed with peaches and topped with raspberry sauce. The entrées made her mouth water: one with boned chicken and razor thin apple slices; the other composed of mussels in a savory sauce with flakes of basil and rosemary.

How in God’s name was she going to convince Nick and John Marsden she’d cooked all this? They would never believe her. And even if they did, the almond and Grand Marnier tart for dessert would be the crowning blow.

“Lie,” she told herself sternly. “Lie, lie, lie.”

She walked quickly to her bedroom, examining her cream-colored dress. It was okay, not too much. Briefly she’d toyed with the idea of renting a black maid’s dress with a frilly white apron but decided that was going too far. After all, John Marsden would be here, too.

Brushing strands of hair from her eyes, those that would not remain contained in the bun at the back of her neck no matter how hard she tried, she walked back to the part of her apartment that could be construed as the dining room. Her table was tiny. There was only room for two. But that was okay because she didn’t intend to eat with them.

She was just lighting the candles when she heard Nick’s knock. Pinning on a bright smile she hoped wasn’t too artificial, she threw open the door dramatically. “Good evening, Mr. Shard, Mr. Marsden…” Her voice trailed off. Nick was alone and he was soaked to the bone.

He coughed hard and shook his head. “Marsden couldn’t make it.”

“What happened to you?” Rory demanded. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”

A burst of wind followed Nick inside, extinguishing the candle as Nick ran his hands through his hair. They came out wet. “I’ve been helping a lady change her tire.”

“You’re soaked to the skin.”

“I should’ve called. I ran out of time.” He sighed. “I think I might’ve picked up Tisdale’s bug.”

“Wonderful. Sit down before you fall down. You shouldn’t be in those wet clothes.” She regarded him helplessly, knowing she had nothing for him to put on.

He wiped a hand across his forehead. “I’d really like a shower.”

“Have at it.”

“I should go home.” He glanced around distractedly. “The place looks nice. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind,” Rory said quickly. In the face of Nick’s current condition she felt a bit mean-spirited at attempting to deceive him. “Take a shower and get warm. I’m not going to be responsible for you dying of pneumonia. I’ll take your clothes downstairs and throw them in the dryer.” Luckily, he was in casual clothes, not one of his suits.

With great reluctance Nick allowed her to guide him to the bathroom. He looked as if he was about to pass out. Rory turned on the taps for him. “Need anything else?”

His lips twisted with faint amusement. “I think I can take it from here.”

“If you change your mind, just yell.” She stepped around him and closed the door behind her.

She stood in the hall, listening. She heard the click of the shower door close behind him, and the steady rush of water. She thought of how sick Don Tisdale had been this week. If Nick had caught the same virus, he wasn’t going to be feeling well for quite a while.

She was still standing outside the bathroom door when the taps switched off. She waited, but when Nick didn’t appear, she called anxiously, “Nick?”

The door opened so abruptly that Rory stepped back, shocked. He was naked from the waist up, a towel slung over his narrow hips. A smattering of dark hair lay in damp whorls on his broad chest. She stared in mesmerized fascination at the sight of muscles sliding beneath the smooth, tight skin as he raked his hand through his wet hair. Then her gaze shifted to the towel. It looked as if one false move might send it skating to the floor.

Nick was shivering. “I should go home,” he said again on a deep cough.

“You need to be in bed,” said Rory in a voice she wouldn’t have recognized as her own. Clearing her throat, she pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Crawl in. I’ll see to your clothes.”

“What about dinner?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Go to bed.” Rory smiled. “I’ll eat by myself. And let me tell you, I worked my fingers to the bone, so I hope you feel bad.”

“I do.” His gray eyes looked into hers. Rory’s heart softened.

“Go to bed before you fall over,” she said gruffly.

He frowned, swaying on his feet. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch. Please, Nick.” She practically pushed him into the room.

Luckily her own clothes were picked up and the bed was made. Not that she was a total slob, but she’d been running behind all day.

“You sure?” he asked, sighing heavily.

“You paid a thousand dollars for Rory-for-a-Night. I can be a nurse as well as a cook.”

She shut the door firmly behind him and went into the bathroom to pick up his clothes. She then took them to the downstairs laundry, marveling at how strange it felt to execute such a domestic task for him‌—‌strange and a little wonderful. But the feel of his cold, water soaked jeans and shirt made her shudder slightly. Checking his pockets before throwing them in the wash, she pulled out his cell phone. “Wouldn’t want that to get any more wet,” she muttered to herself. She hoped he hadn’t complicated the flu with exposure.

Half an hour later she peeked into the bedroom, relieved to find him asleep and sprawled across her queen bed. The sheets were tangled around him, the towel tossed heedlessly on the floor. She could see his broad shoulders and the damp hair that curled at his nape.

He wasn’t sleeping well, she realized, as he turned over and murmured something unintelligible. Tiptoeing to his side, she looked down into his now flushed face. She remembered, suddenly, Nick’s bout with the flu when he was in high school. He’d ended up being hospitalized. She also remembered calling him a wimp whenever he got sick, because he really knew how to overdo it. He, in turn, learned to hate hospitals.

Worried, she let herself out of the room, leaving the door ajar. An hour later she checked on him again. This time he was shivering, and she pulled the comforter up to his shoulders, her fingers grazing his skin. His flesh was on fire.

Rory chewed on her bottom lip. Should she be really worried? Chances were that he was going to be fine in a matter of hours. Still …

She left the bedroom and paced the confines of the living room. Pulling out her laptop she searched the Internet for a label for Nick’s particular bug. Finding nothing but worst case scenarios on mysterious illnesses, she snapped the damn thing closed in frustration and decided to call her sister for a better answer.

“Relax,” Michelle said after Rory had anxiously explained about Nick. “He’s probably fine.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to him.” A note of indulgence crept into her voice. “You really do care about him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Rory answered irritably.

“No, I mean
really
care about him.”

“Michelle, please.”

“Look, if it’ll make you feel better I’ll stop by in about an hour.”

“No… God… Michelle. It’s fine.” Rory sighed in exasperation. “But thanks. You’re probably right. He’s going to be fine.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me?” She sounded almost anxious to come.

“I’m sure. Bye,” Rory replaced the receiver, a little calmer. Michelle was right. This was just the flu and Nick would feel better in a matter of hours. Rory was a little amazed at herself for overreacting. It wasn’t like her.

She cleaned the kitchen, covered the salads and entrées with plastic wrap and stuffed everything in her refrigerator except for a small bowl of fruit salad. This she ate while staring mindlessly at the TV in the living room. The luscious bits of mango and papaya were delicious, but she registered the information in a distant part of her mind.

After rinsing her bowl, she set it in the dishwasher, then wiped down the counters and the table. With a last peek at Nick, she went back downstairs to collect his laundry.

Her neighbor, Mr. Little, glared at her through a pair of trifocals he could never seem to adjust to the right distance. Now his head was tilted back and he looked down at her as if she were some noxious specimen. “That damn cat,” he muttered, “it’s usin’ my petunias as a toilet.”

“Who? Problem?” Rory frowned. “How’s he getting on your deck?”

“He jumps! Sails through the air like a damn bird! Next time I’m takin’ the broom to him.”

Since Problem had scarcely endeared himself to the neighbors even long before Rory came on the scene, Rory understood his sentiment. But if Mr. Little and some of the other residents had really resented Problem as much as they liked to say, they would have had him collected and taken away instead of practically forcing Rory to adopt him. The Siamese was probably safer with Mr. Little than on the street.

“If someone has the flu, what would you do for them?” Rory asked him, pulling Nick’s jeans, shirt, boxer shorts and socks out of the dryer.

“Lots of fluids. Rest. Check his temperature from time to time.” The “his” was slightly stressed as Mr. Little bent back and eyed the clothes in her arms through the bottom of his lenses.

“Thanks.”

Rory smothered a smile as she carried Nick’s clothes back upstairs. Mr. Little would have something to talk over with Miss Matthews when he was invited over tomorrow night, as he was every Saturday night, for dinner.

Stacking Nick’s clothes on the coffee table next to his cell phone, Rory couldn’t resist checking on him again.
I’m as bad as an overprotective mother
, she thought.
I can’t leave him alone for five minutes without worrying.

The comforter was back on the floor and the sheet had slipped to expose Nick’s thigh and leg. He looked incredibly masculine and seemed to overtake her queen bed. Rory stared at him for a full minute, listening to her bedside clock tick quietly as she grappled with feelings she hadn’t known she possessed. Deep feelings with deeper roots. There was something so extremely sensual about him that Rory fantasized about slipping in beside him, covering herself with his warmth, feeling her heart beat against his.

Abruptly she left the room, her breathing fast and ragged. What the hell was the matter with her?

She took Mr. Little’s advice to heart, however, and scrounged through the top shelf of her linen closet, which she used as a medicine cabinet, for her long-lost thermometer. When she found it she took a deep breath and walked back inside her bedroom.

Nick was in exactly the same position. Unsure if walking past him was such a good idea, Rory tentatively placed one hand on his bare shoulder. “Nick?”

There was a slithery movement under the comforter and Problem suddenly leaped for Rory’s leg. She screamed, a short sharp squeak of fear, then clapped her hand to her mouth.

Nick’s head moved against the pillow, then he rolled onto his back. His eyes were still closed. “What the hell?” he muttered.

“Nick, I want to take your temperature.”

“Oh, God.”

“Please.”

He didn’t answer and she wondered if he was fully awake. “I’m going to stick the thermometer under your tongue,” she warned.

He protested and one hand waved her away, but Rory got the job done. She held the tip of the thermometer in place. It was the longest minute of her life.

When she finally checked his temperature, her mouth went dry. The device read one hundred and four. His fever was sky high. What in the world was she going to do? “Nick, your temperature’s a hundred and four,” Rory said, hoping he could hear her.

Slowly he lifted one lid. “So?”

“Do you think you should go to a hospital or something?”

His answer was rude and succinct. Rory was convinced he wasn’t going to expire just yet.

A noise woke her from a sound sleep, and Rory jumped, disoriented, her arm groping for the bedside lamp. Her fingers smashed into something hard and round that rolled to the floor and crashed. Where in the world was she?

Memory washed over her in a cold wave. Stumbling to her feet, she managed to find the switch to the kitchen light. A yellow path of illumination crept into the living room to reveal a vase that had smashed to smithereens against the edge of the coffee table. She was lucky she hadn’t cut her bare feet.