I can’t believe I’m sick. Right before the holiday weekend, I come down with the nastiest head cold that I’ve had in years. I even called out of work to get over it faster, and I can only imagine the backlog piling up.

At least Valerie is picking up my slack. Marisa got on her back the second Archer’s lawyer sent over the signed gift agreement. I thought it would feel good to have it in our hands, but I only feel…guilty. I don’t know why, this is what Archer and I agreed on, but somehow it makes me feel cheap. It reminds me that I’m being paid to go out with Archer and that our relationship is a sham. We’re now two and a half months in, and I’ve begun to think of him as more of a friend than a business arrangement.

I switch on my laptop and focus on getting through eighty emails that accumulated in three days. Todd swung by my apartment earlier today to drop it off. He made me beg before he agreed, swearing that any contact with me would get him sick. When I asked if he wanted to come in, he dropped my laptop outside my door and ran for the elevator.

I sneeze. Oh well. I guess it’s just you and me, laptop.

I just finished making my Control Center (i.e. laptop, phone, throat lozenges, a huge pot of Earl Grey, and two boxes of tissues), when my phone dings.

I stare at the screen. Sounds like Archer is asking me on a date—a real date. I shake my head, then immediately regret it as my temples pound.

Doesn’t look like I’m attending anything.

My phones rings, interrupting my reply. It’s Archer. “Hello?” I say, holding back a sneeze.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

“Uh…I just did?” This time, I can’t hold it back. I sneeze right into the phone. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! That probably sounded gross.”

“How long have you been sick?”

“Three days? I’ve been home all week.”

“Dammit, Quinn,” he mutters. “You’ve got to tell me these things.”

Uh oh. He’s using “Quinn” again.

“It’s not a big deal,” I argue. I cough and pop in a lozenge.

“Yes it is. Just stay warm and drink water.” He clicks off as I cough into the phone.

I toss down my phone and get back to work. It’s easy to be high and mighty when you're not facing down the cold of a lifetime. Besides, I’m not that sick…

I’m plodding my way through a vexing email from Valerie when I hear a knock at my door. I whip my head up. I didn’t order anything. Maybe it’s Todd again.

I groan as I get to my feet. “Who is it?”

“Archer.” His deep voice sounds from behind the door.

Archer? My eyes bug out of my head. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve brought you some things. Can I come in?”

I glance around my apartment. It’s seen three days of a sick person (you do the math), and then there’s my appearance. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know I’m a mess.

“Just a minute!” I cry, leaping into action. I sweep the wadded-up tissues into the trash, toss the dirty dishes into the sink, and throw a pile of clothes into the hamper.

“You alright in there?” Archer asks.

“Just fine!” I run to my closet. “How did you even get up here?” I ask, putting on a fresh shirt and pajama bottoms.

“Told the doorman I was your boyfriend. Let me right up.” He pauses. “Not exactly Fort Knox.”

He has no idea. I’m surprised a place this cheap even has a doorman.

I twist my hair up into a bun and check my reflection. Not glamorous, but eh, it’ll do.

I throw open the door. “Sorry, I was, um—” I stop, seeing the three bags of groceries in Archer’s hands. “What’s this?”

Archer pushes past me. He stops a few feet in, looks around my five hundred square foot studio, and then walks to the kitchenette. He dumps the bags on my island and begins unpacking.

“I picked up a few things that might help.”

“A few things?” I say, eyeing the mass of food, paper products, and cough medicine covering my limited counter space. “Sure you didn’t buy out the store?”

I turn away and sneeze.

Archer scowls at me. “Go lie down before you get worse.”

I twist my lips into a pout.

“And don’t pout at me,” he says without looking up.

How did he—

“Quinn…”

“Fine,” I snap, trudging back to my Control Center. I go back to checking email—and coughing.

Archer takes out a pot, sets it on the stove, and clicks on the burner. He glances over at me. “What are you doing?”

“Working. I’ve been out three days.”

“You should be resting,” Archer argues. “You won’t get better if you’re exhausted.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bossy Pants,” I say. “I’ll keep that in—” a sneeze cuts me off “—mind.”

Archer marches over and snaps my laptop shut.

“Hey!” I shout, struggling to stand up.

“Goddammit, Quinn,” he growls, “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me. Sit there, eat the soup I brought, and get better.” He spins on his heels and goes back to the stove.

I watch him for a moment, fuming, and then lean back into the cushions. “What kind?” I ask in total defeat.

“What?”

“Soup.” I sniff the air. Good smells are already wafting out from the kitchen.

“Chicken noodle from Dean & DeLuca.”

Yes, please. I melt into the pillows. Maybe it’s not terrible that Archer showed up.

Archer shuffles around the cupboards and draws out a bowl. He tips the steamy broth into it and carries it out to me.

“Thank you.” I take a deep whiff. “You know what? I can actually smell it. I haven’t been able to smell or taste anything for days.”

Archer takes a seat across from me on the couch. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were sick.”

I shrug before taking the first spoonful. Yup—heaven in a bowl.

“I could’ve helped sooner. You never let me help you,” he scolds.

“Yes I do…”

He smirks at me.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t,” I admit. “But stop worrying. It’s just some stupid cold I got from work—”

“Or the subway.” He gives an irritated sigh. “I wish you’d let Tom drive you to work.”

“And then what, turn around and drive you around? No way.”

Archer presses his lips together. “I still think it would be easier if you moved in with me.”

This again.

I put my spoon down, and rest my bowl in my lap. “I’m not moving in with a man until I’m engaged.”

“For real?”

“I’m not giving up my place until I know I want to spend the rest of my life with someone.” I can tell what he thinks of that from his shocked face.

“Why, though?” he asks.

“So I know we’re committed to each other. Forever.”

“That’s so naive of you,” Archer says in a hard voice.

“Excuse me?”

“A man can’t leave you after he’s put a ring on your finger? Or cheat on you? One in two marriages ends in divorce, Quinn.”

I frown. “You’re such a cynic. You would laugh at me for wanting a stable, committed relationship. Fine, call me naive, but I’m not moving in with you.”

“What if we got engaged?” he asks, like he’s wondering what I want for dinner.

“Did you not just hear a word I said?”

“I could act like a stable, committed guy.”

“We’re not real,” I say. “It totally doesn’t count.”

He clenches his jaw. “I know. You don’t have to remind me every goddamn minute.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“And you’re being stubborn!”

We glare at each other.

“Tell me about your mom, Quinn,” Archer says, breaking the tense silence.

“Whoa…what?” I say, shaking my head.

“I want to know about your mom and how you came to live with Holly.”

“It’s not important,” I say quickly.

“I want to know.”

I frown at him. “Why, so you can tell the press in your next interview? Get sympathy for slumming it?”

“Whoa, Quinn—”

“Answer me,” I snap.

He narrows his eyes. “Is that how you see me? As some rich kid farming for votes?”

“I don’t know!” I cry, burying my head in my hands. “I never know what’s real or for the cameras with you.” I feel Archer slide over. Soon his arms are around me, pulling me to his chest. When I try to shrug him off, he only grips harder.

I try to stand up. I need to catch my breath. I need space. I need to not feel his warmth, his steely muscles, encircling me and drawing me in.

But Archer’s too fast. His arms tug me back down and press my face to his chest. He smells wonderful: a heady mixture of coffee, cologne, and spice.

“Don’t, you’ll get sick,” I protest.

“I don’t care,” he says. “This is real, East. And for the record, I was asking about your past because I care.”

I sigh into his shoulder. Archer feels so good, so right. Like he was made to hold me.

“If you really want to know…” I say, steeling myself against the memories, “I went into the system after coming home and finding my mom dead in the bathroom.”

“Quinn…” he breathes.

“She’d had a heart attack from a lifetime of heavy cocaine use.” Archer begins rubbing my back, kneading my tense shoulders with the palm of his hand. I relax into it with a small sigh. “I was in the system for a few months, then lived with Holly’s family until I could be permanently placed.”

I pause and glance up at Archer. “I never knew my dad, and there wasn’t any family left to take me in.”

He nods, keeping his face impassive and calm. I silently thanked him for not showing me pity.

“Holly and I…” I smile at the memory “…we got along so well. She was an only child, like me, and soon we were close as sisters. So, Donny and Iris got the paperwork started, and the Younges became my permanent foster family right as I entered high school.”

“I had no idea,” Archer says.

I nod and lean away from him. Any more of that hug, and I’d be in tears.

“I treated it like a fresh start,” I say, picking up my bowl and taking a spoonful of soup. “I kept going to GAC and meeting with Jonathan. He’s the reason I love art and went to NYU on scholarship. Life got so much better with Donny and Iris, but Jonathan’s always been there for me. I don’t know if I would have survived living with my mom without him.”

I scrape up the last spoonful of soup and put down my bowl. “That’s the whole sad story,” I say with a watery smile.

“Quinn—”

“Now you know, and we don’t ever have to talk about this again,” I cut in. I keep my eyes on my lap but I can feel his gaze.

“If that’s how you want it, but—”

“It is. Wanna watch something?” I ask, grabbing the remote and sliding away from him to the other end of the couch.

Archer’s silent for a moment. “Sure.”

I flip on Netflix and scroll through the options. “House Hunters International?” I suggest. “Maybe they’ll have one in France.”

Archer shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

I sneak a glance at him once the episode comes on. Archer’s eyes glaze over while the couple on the screen bickers over whether their chateau in Marseille has enough closet space. To anyone else, he’d look bored, but I know he’s thinking about my story.

I already hate that he knows. I hate that I’m vulnerable and look weak. I didn’t want to tell him, but it’s hard to say no when he’s got his big, strong arms around me, promising that he truly cares.

Archer gets up halfway through the episode, lifts his arms over his head, and stretches. His shirt inches up his torso, and I gawk. How could one man have that many muscles?

Archer catches me in the act and smirks. I rip my eyes away. Darn it! He’s hot even when he’s smirking.

“I should go,” he says. “You need to rest, and I should get back to the office.”

I jump up. “Really? So soon?”

Archer nods, making his way to the door. “There’s more soup and a box of saltines in the bags, and five different brands of cough syrup. Hopefully one helps.”

“Oh…” I follow after him. “Thank you.”

“No problem, East.” He reaches the door and swings it open. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning,” he says, reminding me that the weekend retreat is only three days away.

“Okay, see you then,” I answer.

Archer gives me a tight smile, then walks through the door. I close it after him, turn, and sink to the floor.

Could he run out of here fast enough? I never should have told him about my mom. He’s probably worried about how his girlfriend’s less-than-stellar pedigree will affect his image or his father’s campaign.

I plant my palm on the floor and stumble to my feet. Screw Archer and his pedigrees and his chicken noodle soup. I don’t need his pity. In ten more weeks, there will be no more “us,” and I’ll go back to being regular old Quinn, a broken girl from Brooklyn.