Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(32)

“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.





Eleven.


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.”