Page 15 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)

A long, weak hum vibrates in her pale throat. “I don’t know … yesterday?”

She’s finally able to string some words together, but they’re still so weak I wouldn’t be able to hear them if I took just one step backward.

“Yeah, that’s not good. The worst thing you can do when you’re sick is get dehydrated. Come on, sit up a little.”

Another long groan. “Can’t …”

I roll my eyes. “Even when you’re sick, you’re a pain.” I twist the cap off a bottle of water. “Come on, come on,” I raise my voice a little. “Just sit up enough that you don’t choke when I pour this down your throat.”

Something about that choice of words has my chest hitching and a little too much extra blood flow directing itself below my belt. I chase the reaction away as Harper stirs in bed and hoists herself up just enough for me to bring the water to her lips.

Even as weak as she is, she quickly sucks down half of the big bottle of water. She must have been dying of thirst. I don’t want to imagine how bad she would’ve gotten if I hadn’t thought to check on her.

“Sebastian?” she asks, her voice sounding a little stronger now that her throat isn’t bone dry.

“Yeah?” I ask, twisting the cap back onto the bottle.

“What are you doing here?”

My mouth tilts, a chuckle rumbling in my chest. “Good question.”

“Did you break in?”

“Possibly.”

She answers with another long, low hum. I’m sure it’s not a tone of gratitude, but surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to be one of disapproval, either.

“You really shouldn’t have left your window open like that,” I say. “All kinds of undesirables could sneak in.”

“You’re telling me,” she grumbles.

My mouth twitches. It’s a good thing she’s regaining enough energy to insult me.

“When’s the last time you ate?” I ask.

“Breakfast,” she answers.

I quirk an eyebrow. “This morning?”

“Yesterday.”

“Fuck. You need to eat,” I say, walking over to close and lock the window I just snuck through.

She whines. “Not hungry. Maybe after another nap …”

I get ready to lecture her about how if she neglects nutrition, she’s only going to be sick for longer. But when I look at her, I find her eyes closed and a restful look spreading over her face.

“Fine,” I say out loud, even though I know she’s already too deep into sleep to hear me. “I’ll let you nap for a couple hours, but then you’re having some soup.”

I stand near her bed, shaking my head at her. Of course Harper finds a way to blow up my Louvre plans. Strangely, I can’t find it in myself to be mad at her, though.

I just hope she feels better soon.

I mean … because her being sick while we’re trying to make our plane on time would be a hassle, of course.

She’s so exhausted that she just plopped off to sleep even though her pillows are a total mess. Stooping over her, I tuck two pillows neatly behind her head. If she’s congested, she’ll sleep better if she’s more upright.

Even though there was no chance of me making it to the Louvre today, I thought maybe I’d at least take a walk around.

Enjoy the sights of Paris some more on my second-to-last day here.

Maybe stop by a bookstore, buy a book of French poetry or short stories or something and read them in a park or by the river or at a café while people watching.

But I still couldn’t shake the worry whenever I was out of Harper’s room. What if she wakes up sooner than I expect and she’s suddenly hungry? Or she falls while trying to get out of bed and needs help getting up?

I ended up going right back to her room and sitting there scrolling on my phone. After a couple hours, I decide that it’s probably not good for her to sleep this long uninterrupted.

Plus, if she hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning for fuck’s sake, we’ve really gotta get something in her stomach.

I go out and find a café, bringing us both back some soup and sandwiches. With the bag of food in my hand, I go out of my way to be noisy as I open the door coming back to her room.

“Rise and shine,” I call out, shutting the door too hard. “Time to eat.”

She stirs under her covers, another one of her prolonged groans announcing her displeasure.

She’d probably sleep for another twenty-four hours if I let her.

But our flight is early in the morning the day after tomorrow, and if her sleeping cycle gets totally out of whack, it’s only going to be worse for her on the journey home.

“Wake up,” I say, nudging her mattress with my foot after kicking my shoes off. “I’ve got your favorite soup.”

That has her heavy eyelids peeking open, suspicion dancing in her glare. “My favorite?”

I place the bag of food down on the tiny desk in the room and fish out the soup cartons. “Yep. Tomato.”

Her expression becomes livelier and her eyebrows draw together in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“In middle school, you’d always get excited when they had tomato soup in the cafeteria. I remember you calling chicken noodle soup overrated in some random conversation we were in.” The edge of my mouth tugs up at the memory. It sure was a long time ago.

She props herself up on her elbows, looking at me. “You remember that?”

My cheeks suddenly feel warm. I point at my head, trying to play it off. “Good memory. Now eat,” I say, holding the carton out to her.

If she were still talking to that asshole Clement, and he stuck around long enough to take care of her today, there’s no way he’d have known to get her tomato soup and not chicken noodle.

She sits up in her bed. The duvet covering her slides down and bunches up around her waist. She’s been sweating enough that the white t-shirt she’s wearing is stuck to her body.

My eyes snag on the way the fabric hugs her perky tits, and I fall into a daze for about two seconds before I snap myself out of it and tear my eyes away.

“Wow, this smells good,” Harper says, removing the lid from her carton.

“Probably better than our middle school cafeteria at least.”

“What did you get?” she asks as I turn the seat at the desk around to face her, opening my own lid.

“Same thing. Tomato.”

“Copycat.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think the whole copycat thing works if I’m the one who got them.”

“It does,” she announces primly, sipping her soup.

“If you weren’t sick, maybe I’d be more inclined to argue my point. Because I’m right. But you are sick, so I’ll graciously just let you be wrong with no push back.”

“Actually, since?—”

I cut her off by very loudly slurping my soup. “Sorry. Couldn’t hear you over the sound of enjoying the soup, which was one hundred percent my decision to get. I’m assuming you graciously admitted defeat and we’re moving onto another topic.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but can’t hide the twitch at the edge of her mouth.

“What did you do today?” she asks.

“I went to the Bois de Boulogne to go on a run this morning. Then I spent the rest of the day trying to keep you alive.”

She rolls her eyes. “Drama queen.” She sips some more soup. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you mention your ticket to the Louvre was today?”

Warmth is crawling up my neck into my cheeks again. “Yeah. But, I mean …”

Her head whips up, her eyes locking with mine. “Sebastian. Do not tell me you missed out on seeing the Louvre just to take care of me.”

All I can do is shrug. “What can I say? You know how selfless I am.”

She sighs, shaking her head, still looking at me with hints of outrage mingled with guilt lining her face. “I’m never going to live this down. For as long as we know each other, you’re always going to hold this over my head, guilt-tripping me that I ruined your one chance to see the Louvre.”

All I can do is grin. “Wow, you do know me well.”

She points her gaze down at her soup again. A couple beats of silence pass as she spoons more of the liquid into her mouth. Then she looks up. “Thanks.”

My lips hitch, even though I try to stop them. “Don’t mention it.”

A sort of awkward silence settles over the room. I try to think of a topic of conversation to fill it. All I come up with is, “So, get stood up on any more dates lately?”

She drills me with a nonplussed look. “Sebastian, I’m already sick. Don’t make me nauseous on top of it by having to think about going back onto the apps when I get home.”

For some reason, the thought of Harper on those apps, every guy at Brumehill swiping on her profile and trying to set up dates with her, brings a bad taste to my mouth that overwhelms the flavor of the soup.

“If you don’t like them, why are you on them?”

Her lips roll, and her jaw muscles arc like she’s grinding her molars. “I need a date for my cousin’s wedding.”

“Why? Like, I know people like to have plus-ones for weddings. But it’s not like it’s so important that you have to put yourself through an ordeal you can’t stand to get one. If you’re not dating someone at the time, just go alone.”

“Wow, Sebastian, you really are a genius. I wonder why I haven’t thought of that.” Her sarcasm is thicker than the tomato soup we’re eating.

“What’s the issue, then?”

“The issue is my family are all assholes and if I show up single to another wedding, they’ll never let me live it down, not like they’re letting me live it down as it is.” She tilts her carton to down the last of her soup before asking, “Did you get anything else to eat?”

A devilish grin pops on my face. “Wow, someone has an appetite. I hope the next wedding-related drama isn’t over you struggling to fit into your dress.”

“Sebastian, I swear to?—”

I can’t hold back my laughter at her tone that’s sharp enough to cut glass. My hand is pressed to my belly as I toss her her sandwich. “You know I’m kidding. Eat.”

There’s still hostility in her glare as she unwraps it.

“So, your family is pressuring you to bring a date to the wedding? Really?”