Page 72 of Cakes for the Grump

I flee the site of my imagination crime.

NINETEEN

My bad luck multiplies.Putting all my energy into producing a competitive dish for the second round of CUM has come at a cost. My fever has returned with malevolence. In bed, swaddled in blankets like the thickest burrito, my teeth chatter, and I moan every time another round of shivers go through my body.

I have no concept of time, dimly aware that the sky goes light and then dark and then light again. Knowing I need nourishment to survive this terrible ordeal, I’ve taken to eating my employers’ nasty protein bars in bed, stumbling out of the covers only to use the facilities whenever absolutely necessary.

I sleep in fits, largely alone and abandoned to my fate—except now.

He’s back.

“My soul is not for the taking!”

“Once again,” says the blonde man, “I am not the literal devil.”

Oh. It’s Luke.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, feeling too drained to be embarrassed about what I look like. Part of my hair has matted from sweating and tossing against a pillow. And the crinkling sound I hear when I move around means there is a colony of empty wrappers strewn about. Attractive.

“I’m checking up on you,” says Luke. “I’ve been buried in projectionsthese last few days, and I thought our schedules were merely the opposite, but you haven’t been around for too long, so I got…”

Concerned?

I think of asking, but he’s already busied himself by the side table. A bottle gets taken out of its box, held up, and examined in the light.

Luke deduces, “You haven’t been taking your medicine properly,” in a rather annoyed tone. “You are supposed to take care of yourself, Rita. I’m not happy that you haven’t been.”

“Don’t yell. I’m weak.”

He doesn’t, but there are definitely choice words uttered under his breath.

Luke walks over to my side of the bed. He taps my head with a finger, waiting until I look up at him. An eyedropper of medicine hovers in the air.

“Open up,” orders Luke.

I do.

If I’m not mistaken (which I very well may be in this condition), he stiffens immediately, his body reacting to a stimulus it hadn’t anticipated. Very slowly, he feeds the eyedropper into my mouth, squeezing out the bitter liquid. Not wanting any to dribble down my chin, I close my lips around it and suck. His hand reaches out and fists the bedding beside my pillow. Luke refills the stopper again and repeats the procedure. This time when I suck, his eyes stick to the corner of my ear.

When I release the stopper with an audible pop, his face contorts as if in pain.

“Go to sleep,” he commands, leaving my side.

“I am,” I say, fluttering my eyes closed.

“Good.”

“Luke?”

“Stop talking. Rest.”

“But I’ve decided.”

I don’t think he’ll play along, but he does. “You’ve decided what?”

“You can get better at cooking if you want.”

He stands by the door like a man intent on leaving. “…What inspires this confidence?”