Page 90 of The Good Girl's Guide to Being Bad

“Ah, trying to cop a feel when I’m sick,” he said, eyes closing. “Cheap move. Not that I blame you.”

“You wish,” I said. “I’m seeing if you have a fever—and yep, you are burning up, buddy. We should try to lower your temp. You should take off that sweater.”

Colton groaned as I helped him sit up.

“How long has this been going on anyway?”

“Well, you see,” he said, fumbling with the buttons, “there’s this girl who made me stand in the rain for something called a ‘rain kiss.’”

“No,” I said.

“Yes.” Colton finally got the last button undone, and as his sweater fell open, I realized my mistake. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Oh Lord. All that stared back at me was a gloriously toned chest attached to a firm stomach. I felt myself blushing but couldn’t look away. “Basically Sadie, you’re responsible for all of this.”

“Oh my God,” I said, reaching out to stop him.

But not quick enough.

His wrists were hot beneath my hands, his sweater off his shoulders, still covering his forearms, but he was naked from the waist up for all intents and purposes. Feeling guilty and a bit fevered myself, I had no idea how to handle this. Colton Bishop was sick, and I was to blame. No one else was here. I had to stay and take care of him—didn’t I? Make sure he was okay and…was I seriously ogling his abs when he was ill? Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

“With the way you’re staring,” Colton said, “at least I know I’m still hot even in this state.”

And maybe he would.

I spun on my heel and headed for the door.

“You finally going?” he asked.

“Just downstairs to get medicine.”

“Mom had me take some already.”

“Okay, then I’ll bring up water, a cold compress, Ginger Ale and Saltines if you have them,” I murmured. “Be right back.”

“Just go,” Colton groaned, but by then I was determined. I would stay until he went to sleep. It was the right thing to do. He needed me, and I was going to stay, no matter how much he grumbled about it.

Colton groaned.

Again.

It was like the third time in the last five minutes. Sensing he needed a little attention, I turned my head without removing my eyes from the TV. We were both on his bed—and I was trying my best to forget that fact. Me on top of the blankets, sitting up, him under the sheets on his back (which meant his naked chest was covered, thank goodness). We were about ten minutes into the first episode, and it was starting to get good.

“You need something, Colton?” I asked.

“What the hell are you making me watch?” he demanded.

“It’s a period drama. One of my favorites.”

“A period what-a?”

“It’s a period drama, BBC’sPride and Prejudice,” I sighed, pushing pause then looking at him. “It’s a mini-series. What’s your problem anyway? I thought you said you were going to ignore me and get some sleep.”

“I was trying,” he said. “But then all those people started talking in this weird way, keeping me up.”

“I can turn the volume down if you want.” He frowned, and I shrugged. “Or we can watch it together.”

“Just leave already,” he said—then coughed in that pained way which made my throat hurt in sympathy. “Won’t your mom be worried?”

“I already texted her.”

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