Page 67 of Even Robots Die
He drops the blankets in my arms and disappears through the door.
Florentine is still clutching my wrist, but she tucked her head between her arm and against her knees.
It feels wrong to move her when she’s like this, but she’s not going to get any warmer if she stays this way.
“Florentine, I need to move you so I can switch your blankets,” I tell her as I wrap my hand over the one she has around my other wrist.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears.
“I need your words, Miss Furious,” I tell her with a cocky smile.
It has the intended effect because she looks at me with murder in her eyes and the tears are all forgotten.
“You’re an ass,” she tells me. “Do what you need.”
“Even if what I need includes removing your shirt?” I say, trying to stay as serious as possible.
“I’m not removing my shirt,” she answers me, and if looks could kill, I would be dead by now.
“Don’t be silly,” I tell her, “you need dry clothes or you won’t get warm.”
“Give me the blanket,” she demands more than says.
I don’t know how this woman manages that. She looks to be on death’s door and she still manages to sound like she’s in control.
I remove my hand from over hers and she moves that hand in a “give me” movement. I drop a corner of the first blanket in her hand and she crawls back to the top of the bed.
I see her move under the blanket and throw her shirt to the ground and then her shorts.
“All good,” she says, and her head is barely out of the blanket.
Except she’s not all good. She’s shivering even with the blanket.
I walk up to the head of the bed and wrap the second blanket around her when there is a knock at the door.
I open it and Charles pushes a plate against my chest with gooey chocolate cake and two spoons.
I look at him with what I hope is annoyance on my face, but he doesn’t let me voice it. He turns his back to me and disappears once again.
I make my way back to Florentine and retrieve the glass I left on the ground in passing.
Once I’m near the head of the bed, I sit next to her and put the glass on the nightstand.
Softly, I tuck the blankets down so I can see her face.
“Florentine, you need to drink and eat,” I tell her.
She eyes the cake and the spoons like they’re the enemy.
I scoop a bit of cake onto one of the spoons and bring it to my mouth. As if she was waiting to see if I would get sick, Florentine untangles an arm from the cocoon of blankets as soon as I swallow the piece of cake.
It’s good. I have no idea how Charles found it so fast. I didn’t expect the thing to glide on my tongue deliciously, but it does.
I know she will like it, even in her state.
“Bring the plate closer,” she tells me.
“Bossy little thing,” I answer.
