Page 25 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

The cowboy twisted to face me. “Hey, there. How’re you feeling?”

Good question. I sat up, licking my dry lips. “Better…I think. What are you doing here? Is it January?”

Hudson smiled and shook his head. “Not yet. I told Vicki I’d drop off your soup and make sure you took your medicine. Hang tight. I’ll get that for you now.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No, but I volunteered, and I don’t mind at all.” He returned with a glass of water and a bottle of prescription pills.

I took the antibiotics, swallowing around the razor blade scraping my throat.

“Ugh. That hurts.”

“Poor guy.” Hudson patted my knee gently. “Sinus infections are the worst. I’ve had a couple, and I remember feeling achy all over. The important thing is to keep hydrated and get a lot of rest.”

“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” I snarked.

His grin was instantaneous, spreading across his handsome features like wildfire. “I’ve missed that sassy mouth of yours.”

“I’m sorry. That was rude and—no, wait. It’s still December, so…I’m not sorry at all. I’m sick and I’m mad about it, and…and…you shouldn’t be here. Sure, I saw your penis once, but let’s face it, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, so…skedaddle.”

Hudson cocked his head as he perched on the coffee table. “You’re right, but you were the one who asked me to stay.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did. You said, and I quote, ‘I like your peppermint tea. Do you want to watchThe Price is Righttomorrow?’ So here I am.”

I gasped. “I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t.”

“You did,” he insisted.

I frowned, pointing at the flat-screen. “That’s notThe Price is Right.”

“Nope, we’re watching sports highlights. We’ve got NBA, NFL, NHL, and of course, it’s college bowl game time, so?—”

“Halt. I don’t understand those words.”

“That’s okay. My teams aren’t doing so hot this year, so it’s a little painful to explain.” Hudson turned the station to the Game Show Network. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“You should eat something. How do you feel about lentil soup?”

“It sucks dragon balls,” I huffed around a cough.

He chuckled. “What about chicken noodle?”

“It’s the devil’s dander.”

“Tomato soup?”

“Meh.”

“Meh? That’s it?”

“I sort of don’t hate it.”

Hudson clutched his chest in mock surprise. “Alert the press! We found something Moody doesn’t hate in the month of December.”