THURSDAY MORNING, REALLY EARLY

Last night I blamed the onset of my headache on two glasses of white wine.

Which, honestly, is probably a little silly. Two glasses doesn’t usually give me a headache unless it’s really crappy wine, and we all know Andrew Mulroney is so not the type of guy to have crappy wine on hand.

But you know what he has had on hand lately?

The freaking flu.

Sometime around three A.M., when I woke up with body-racking chills and my headache had gotten about ten times worse, I realized what had happened.

Andrew had been right.

That sidewalk kiss had consequences more dire than tabloid rumors. Andrew Mulroney had passed his sick-bomb my way.

I should have known when I’d fallen asleep during Enchanted. I never miss Giselle and Robert’s happy ending.

I halfheartedly extend my arm toward the nightstand, where my cellphone sits, wondering if I can talk Marley into coming over and bringing medicine and Gatorade. But my arm drops well before it reaches the phone. It would take way too much energy.

I wonder how Andrew’s feeling this morning. He fell asleep on the couch even before me, but not before I’d forced him to down three of the flavored sparkling waters I’d bought for him. I’d tried for the Gatorade, but he’d grumbled something about artificial flavors and coloring. Typical.

What I wouldn’t give for some of that Gatorade right now. Or the sparkling water.

The soup, on the other hand, sounds nasty. All food does. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. I’m not even sure I’ll live.

I pull the covers over my head and wait for death.

I’m not certain how much time passes after I brace myself to start seeing the white light, but somewhere through my head-pounding, fever-induced misery, I think I hear a knock.

Yeah, no chance. I can’t even bring myself to lift my head, much less somehow maneuver my body out of my bed.

But my self-protective flight-or-fight instincts are stronger than the flu, because when I hear my front door open, I somehow manage to sit upright in bed, my heart pounding in fear.

A second later, a six-foot-two silhouette appears in my doorway. “You really should lock the deadbolt, Georgiana.”

I groan and flop back down onto the bed. “You.”

“Me,” Andrew says.

“How’d you get in?”

“Convinced Charles you’d asked me to feed your cat.”

“And he believed that I’d let you feed my cat?” I ask. “Everyone who works here knows we hate each other.”

“I love that that’s what you’re incredulous about, and not the fact that I made up a cat you don’t have.” He pauses. “Do you?”

“Allergic,” I mutter.

Andrew’s all the way in my bedroom now, standing beside my bed. It’s mostly pitch-black, but he’s turned on a light from the kitchen, and I can tell he’s wearing a suit, clearly on his way to work.

“No gym clothes,” I say on a croak.

“Not feeling a hundred percent yet,” he says, bending down to set his briefcase against the nightstand, “so I’m not up to bench pressing today. But I’m well enough to catch up on some things at the office.”

“You got your wish,” I say, shivering violently as I roll onto my side.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, pulling the sheet and then the comforter up over my shoulder, tucking them under my chin before gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed. “What wish is that?”

“Killing me,” I say. “You said the other day you were going to kill me, and you have. Death by flu, transmitted by kiss.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, his tone amused. “Truly. But . . . pretty good kiss, though.”

I sigh and rub my cheek against the pillow. “Pretty good kiss.”

My head still hurts, my body’s still cold, but somehow I don’t feel quite as bad as I did just a couple minutes ago, and my eyes close. For the first time in hours I feel like I might actually be able to fall asleep.

“Have you taken any medicine?” he asks.

“Hmm?” I pry my eyes back open.

“Something to reduce the fever? Help with the head?”

I try to shake my head, but I’m not really sure I move at all. “Ran out of Tylenol a couple weeks ago. Forgot to replace.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be right back. You need anything else besides pills and that godawful neon-blue liquid you stocked my fridge with?”

“Be grateful. Was trying to take care of you,” I mumble.

“And now it’s my turn to take care of you,” he says, standing.

“You don’t have to.” It comes out like Yu doh haf to.

I feel a brush of warm fingertips against my temple, the touch all too fleeting. “I know.”

I don’t think any time passes, but it must, because when I open my eyes again, Andrew’s back and holding a cup of blue Gatorade on ice.

“You need help sitting up?” he asks.

I shake my head, heaving myself into a somewhat seated position. I brace myself on one arm and reach for the Gatorade with the other. It feels like heaven in my dry throat, and I gulp it.

“Hold on, save some to wash down the pills,” he says, holding out his hand. I try to maneuver my free hand to take them, but I’m too unsteady. Instead I open my mouth and tilt my head back like a baby bird.

I see him shake his head. “Ridiculous,” he says as he gently drops two pills onto my tongue.

I swallow them with the Gatorade and hand the empty glass back to him before letting myself fall back onto the pillows.

“You changed,” I say, watching him through half-closed eyes, struggling to stay awake.

He glances down at his jeans and sweater. “Didn’t have a candy-striper outfit, but I figured this was better than the suit for playing nurse.”

“Nurse Ratched,” I mutter, feeling pretty pleased that I can still banter despite having only two functioning brain cells. “You’re not going to work?”

I see him shrug. “I can catch up on most things from your living room.”

My heart flutters. “You’re staying?”

“Looks like. Any requests, patient?” he asks as he pulls the sheets and comforter back to my chin. I think I feel the pad of his thumb brush unnecessarily along my cheek, but that could be the delirium.

“Yes,” I say.

“Soup?” he asks. “I know a girl who just whipped up some pretty decent homemade stuff.”

“She sounds nice.”

“Nicer than I deserve,” he says quietly.

I smile sleepily. “That’s true. But no, soup wasn’t my request.”

“Tell me.”

I reach out my hand, fumbling around for his. He’s not as emotionally stunted as I thought, because he senses what I want and reaches for my floundering hand.

I squeeze his fingers. “Stay?”

“Sure.” He squeezes back. “Call if you need anything. I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, stay here,” I say, tugging his hand.

He’s silent for a moment. “In your bedroom?”

“Hate being sick,” I whisper. “It’s so lonely.”

“Georgiana—”

“Please. You won’t get sick, you’ve already had this plague.”

“Surely there’s someone I can call. Someone you actually like.”

“Lots of people.”

He winces, and I squeeze his hand harder, deciding to go for broke. “Need you.”

I wonder if that phrase does the same thing for him that it did for me yesterday. It must, because a second later I hear him kick off his shoes and ease his hand away, only to come around to the other side of the bed.

It’s been a long time since someone’s been in this bed beside me, and I immediately roll toward him, curling into him for warmth.

I feel his chest extend under my cheek as he sighs. Then, very slowly, his arms go around me, pulling me close, and I realize that somehow, even sick as I am, this is the happiest I’ve felt in a long, long time.