Graham
I’m pretty surethe last place I should be is standing on Emery’s doorstep. Actually, I know I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the gym, or the rink, or hell, doing anything but standing here. There are more than enough reasons not to be here; yet, here I am, holding a paper bag of my mama’s chicken noodle soup and so many different cold medicines that the person checking me out at the pharmacy probably thought I was starting a meth lab.
When Emery sees me, she’ll probably throw one of those pointy heels that I love so much right at my head, praying that it takes me out.
Red hot. And I don’t even give a shit, what I do give a shit about is knowing Em’s okay.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her, and two weeks since she told me to shove it up my ass after how I acted at the anniversary party. Which, I do feel like shit about, but I felt even fucking worse seeing that prick’s hands on her. When Reed mentioned that she was sick, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
I use the sleek black knocker on the door and wait. Thirty seconds go by and nothing, so I knock again. I’m about to pull my phone out and call when the door swings open and Emery appears.
Oh fuck.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy and her nose looks like fucking Rudolph, and she’s wearing at least seven layers of clothes on under the blanket draped on her shoulders.
She groans, dropping her head against the side of the door, leaning on it for support. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating, and you aren’t actually standing here.”
I laugh. “Nice to see you too, babe. Brought you something.”
Her eyes drift down to the paper bag in my right hand, and her eyes light up slightly. “Is it something to put me out of my misery?”
“Nope, something better. You gonna let me in?”
For a second, she pauses, and I think she might say no, which she probably should but then she straightens and opens the door wider for me to enter. If I didn’t know how sick she was by her appearance, her house would be a dead giveaway.
It’s a fucking wreck, and while wild Emery Davidson is a spitfire and as wild as they come, messy she is not.
“Damn,” I mutter, taking in the living room and kitchen. There’s junk everywhere, half-empty water bottles and soup cans littering the counter.
Instead of responding, she breaks out in a coughing fit that has me dumping the stuff in my arms onto the counter and rushing to her. She doubles over, clutching her chest as she hacks, and when I reach out to put my arm around her, she sinks into my touch.
“Goddamn it, Emery, have you been to the doctor?”
She shakes her head then groans, still clutching her chest. “No, I hate doctors.”
This woman. Stubborn as fuck.
“You sound like you’re dying. Go sit down at least.” I guide her to the couch and she plops down onto the plush white of her sectional, curling into the blanket around her shoulders. “Are you cold?”
She nods slightly. “I can’t get warm.”
“That’s because I’m sure you have the flu. Do you have a thermometer?”
“I’m fine, Graham, you don’t have to be here. Didn’t we say this was over?”
Even though she’s not fine and another coughing fit hits her just as she says it. If I left right now, I’d feel like an asshole. When Reed told me she was sick, in passing, and that she sounded like shit over the phone, I knew my Ma’s soup would make everything better. It always did for me when I was growing up, and honestly? What happened at the party is the last thing I’m worried about. Right now, at least. Because I wasn’t going to let her walk away so easily. Nah, not when I can feel what’s happening between us. I’ve never been one to give up when it came to something I wanted, and what I want is Emery.
“Look, I get that we’re done with the benefits part of this, but you’re sick as hell, Em. Can’t we at least be friends? Let me take care of you. Plus, I brought my mama’s famous chicken noodle soup. Now where’s the thermometer?” I raise my eyebrow.
“Wait, doesn’t your family live in like Idaho or something, how did you even the get soup here?”
“Tennessee. And because I made it.”
With that, she sits up slightly, her eyes wide. “You… made me chicken noodle soup?Homemade?” Disbelief drips from her words.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“Oh god,” she groans, flopping back down, “I was right. You are too good to be true. This feels relationship-y. Your mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup? No. I can’t Adams, sorry. I’m okay. Leave me to die alone. Seriously, out.”