Page 90 of Rare Blend
I must be hallucinating.
“You’re telling me that my man-hating mother gave you her sacred caldo de pollo recipe?”
“Yep. Try it.” His eyes dart down to the bowl.
My senses are off, so I probably won’t be able to taste much of it, but presentation-wise, it’s spot on. I slurp a spoonful, Ethan watching me like a hawk the whole time.
“Well?”
“It’s pretty good,” I admit. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”
He continues chatting with me, and I hem and haw in all the right places, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.
My mom hasn’t made this for me in years. I was probably in high school the last time. It’s not a hard recipe, and I’ve made it a few times, but it’s one of those things that tastes better when someone else makes it for you. The fact that she gave him the recipe is a whole other thing to unpack. What could he have said? I’ll deal with that when my brain feels less like mush.
Maybe it’s the fever, or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, but I get the feeling Ethan wouldn’t go out of his way like thisfor just anyone. What that means, I’m not entirely sure. But I can’t keep pretending this is just a friendship. This is more. And I think it’s more than I’ve ever experienced. But where does that leave us?
I finish my bowl, and even though my taste buds are a little off, it really did taste like my mom’s. I don’t know how he did it. I look at him, feeling more awake, and notice something is off. He looks…different.
“What are you wearing?”
“What?” he says, turning away to place my bowl in the sink, but I still notice the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink.
“Are those Shane’s clothes?” I can’t recall Ethan ever wearing something like this, but I know for a fact I’ve seen Shane wear something similar around town.
He shakes his head, keeping his back to me before turning around and looking everywhere but my eyes.
It’s not that I’m complaining. He looks good. He looks more than good.
“Shane and his stupid ideas,” Ethan says, more to himself than to me.
He looks younger somehow, with his face pinched, looking equal parts frustrated and annoyed. It’s cute, and I feel the weirdest urge to squeeze his cheeks.
I think the fever is making me weird.
I stand, but it’s too fast, and the vertigo makes me sway.
Ethan zips toward me, grabbing at my ribs to steady me. “Maybe I should take you to bed.”
I still, letting my body go slack in his hold, and look up at him. I may be sick, but I’m notthatsick.
He winces and shakes his head. “To lie down,” he clarifies, but it’s too late. My mind went there immediately.
He stays holding me as he guides me back to my bedroom. On the way there, I notice that either little fairies appeared while I was sleeping and cleaned the cottage, or it was Ethan.
“You cleaned?” I know it was him. Who else would it be?
“A bit,” he says nonchalantly.
The heat in my chest rises a few degrees. He made me soup and he cleaned and he’s taking care of me. It’s too much. It feels too good. I don’t know what to do with all the emotions flooding me at once.
I could easily get used to this. I can’t recall ever being taken care of this way. Maybe as a child, but even then it’s different because it’s a parent. Brandon sure never did. In fact, he would quarantine himself whenever I would get sick, leaving me to basically take care of myself. I’ve been so deprived of care like this I don’t know how to handle it. By the time we get in my bedroom and Ethan helps me climb into bed, my mind is a battlefield of emotions. I try to mask it, but I’m sure he can see the turmoil written all over my face.
Ethan’s gaze meets mine, and he freezes. “What’s wrong? Does something hurt?”
He’s worried about me. Genuinely worried about me. And it’s only a flu. My heart aches, the pressure of it cracking open my chest. That’s how deprived I am, how desperate I feel. I’m so neglected, a couple of kind gestures are my undoing.
I look away, not wanting his concerned stare.
