Page 140 of The Holiday Clause

“I’ll get you some water.” She disappeared into the kitchen but continued to talk. “I have another session with him tonight.”

He sputtered to speak as the coughing continued. “Session…” Cough. “…for…” Hack. “…what?”

“A Swedish massage.”

Greyson stiffened, alarm bells going off in his congested, pounding head. “Where’s River?”

“He specifically requested a female masseuse.” She returned with a glass of water. “I squeezed a little lemon in it. The vitamin C’s good for you.”

He guzzled the water and reminded himself that massage therapy was a part of her job, but his filthy mind dwelt on the ending of their one-on-one session a few days ago. The thought of that entitled asshole laying on her table made his blood pressure spike.

“Isn’t there someone else who can do it?”

She laughed. “You sound jealous.”

“It’s called territorial, which we already established I am. Consider yourself marked.” He tried to go all alpha, but he was too weak. Instead, he reached out a hand, then wilted as if shot.

“You’re adorable when you’re congested.” She came to him and kissed his forehead.

He smiled innocently while imagining plowing that douchebag’s BMW into a snowbank. “You’re so warm.”

“And you’re burning up.”

“I’m—“ Another hard cough rattled his chest.

“All right, no more talking.” She easily took control and pushed him to lie back down. “You’re officially benched.” She tucked a blanket around his legs and set a box of tissues within reach.

He would have objected, but he was too weak and feeble. The more he fought, the more he embarrassed himself. So he just groaned.

“Such a big, tough man,” she mocked.

“I mildly overexerted myself. This is just lag from snow removal.”

“Sure.”

“I am sure. A baby aspirin and a hot shower, and I’ll be good as new.” He coughed again, this time curling to his side with a groan.

“The universe is telling you to stop talking and rest. I only want you opening your mouth to drink water. You need to stayhydrated.” She disappeared into the kitchen, humming softly. Stirring. Clinking things.

The sounds were… nice. Especially considering how shitty he felt. Years had passed since anyone had nurtured him and he’d forgotten what a comfort that could be. The last time someone had taken care of him like this was when his mother tucked him in with chicken pox, bringing him soup and cool washcloths for his fever.

“Whatever you’re making in there smells incredible.”

“I said no talking. Your vocal cords need a rest or the inflammation won’t go down. The soup will be ready in a few minutes.”

As he sank into the couch cushions, his mind drifted to his childhood. He recalled the old daytime sitcoms he used to watch whenever he got sick as a child, and how his mother waited on him. One time, he had the chicken pox and was stuck on the couch for a week.

He hadn’t thought of that memory in years, but he couldn’t stop thinking of it now. He remembered the scent of his mom’s shirts—a cross between flowers and fabric softener. He missed that smell. He hadn’t smelled it since she died.

Wren returned with a bowl of steaming soup. “This has to cool.” She pulled the table close and set him up with a little placemat and more tea. Then she refilled his water.

“Thank you.”

She smiled. “It’s nothing. I like taking care of you.”

And he liked being taken care of, especially by her. Very few people could get this close to him. He wasn’t used to being vulnerable in front of others, but for some reason it didn’t bother him with Wren.

She settled next to him on the couch and reached for the remote. “I always likeGilmore Girlswhen I’m sick.”