Page 86 of A Game Plan for Love

“No! Why are men idiots?”

“Uh…I am a man?”

“Oh, right. Let me rephrase. Why is my boyfriend an idiot who believes he needs to suffer alone while he has the stomach flu?”

Ben jolts in surprise. “You’re dating Monroe?”

“Yes? I filled out the HR paperwork before the season started. You were cc’d on those emails.”

“Oh.” He blanches. “I think I deleted that. Good for you, though. Fully approve. Has he met Nora?”

“On the first date. And now she’s why he has the stomach flu. He took care of her last night.”

“Go,” he commands. “Take care of him. Call him an idiot. Do what you need to do.” He lifts his hand and flings them toward the door. “And get the hell out of my office. You are a petri dish and if I get the stomach flu again I’m going to be pissed.”

I grab my bag and phone from the nutrition room and head to my car. Panic and anger swirl in my chest, and I pull up my messages to find his address from Jack, but there’s another message.

Dad: We would like to talk in person.

I quickly sent off a response. No way in hell am I going to Omaha.

Me: I’m not traveling.

Dad: We would like to come to you. Spend a weekend in Seattle. Have dinner.

My heart thumps in my throat.

Me: I’ll think about it.

Dad: We were hoping for the second weekend in October. But we will respect your decision.

With that, I close the message chain and plug Declan’s address into the GPS. I make a pitstop for soup, and ten minutes later, I’m pulling up to a large ranch-style home with a bright yellow door and an unkept lawn. A few dahlias sprout between the weeds, and a large wooden fence blocks the view into the backyard.

The soup shakes in my hand as I storm to the door and bang until my fist hurts, and the anger dissipates slightly.

It returns with vigor the moment Declan opens the door. His skin is pale and slightly green, and a slight sheen of sweat covers his forehead. Shorts hang low on his hips, and he’s missing a shirt.

“Addie?” His question is confused and innocent, and if I wasn’t pissed, it might be adorable.

I shove him into the house and follow behind.

“This is not how it's going to work,” I say, voice rising. He pales and then runs down the hall. I follow him into the bathroom and he heaves into the toilet. “You donotget to take care of us, and not let us take care of you.” I dry heave as he clutches the toilet bowl. “We made adeal, Declan. No more. We take care of each other.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m clutching the soup to my chest like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the bowl, the apology echoing.

“Don’t apologize. Just let us in.” He vomits again and then flushes the toilet. His eyes are clear when they meet mine, and he swishes mouthwash around his mouth. “I brought you soup.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. His hand trails down my arm to take hold of my free hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry or get sick.”

“That’s my job,” I respond, voice thick. “I get to take care of you.”

He nods. “Alright.”

I untangle our fingers and lift a hand to his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he says with a wry smile. I smack his arm. “Be serious.”

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