Chapter 3

3

Chloe

"He has the flu."

"Is he okay?" Dom asks.

I close the door quietly and head down the hall to the lounge. Don't want to disturb him now that he's finally sleeping—he'd tossed and turned before finally settling and snoring into his pillow. "Well, he isn't dead."

"Ideal."

"He's sleeping now, and I got some medicine into him." I rifle through his pantry to see what he has. He probably hasn't eaten in a while and will need something when he wakes up.

"Thanks." Something crashes in the background and Dom swears. "I'll be there later tonight to check on him. Thanks for making sure he's alive."

I spy chicken stock in the depths of the pantry. "No problem."

"Are you heading home now?"

I set the stock and some noodles I find on the bench and bite my lip, glancing at his bedroom. "I'm already here. I may as well stay tonight and make sure he's okay." I roll my eyes at myself. Why am I staying when I'm being given an out? Oh, because he's adorable and funny even in his delirious state, and I already feel guilty at the thought of leaving.

"Are you sure?" Dom sounds confused. Probably because of how adamant I was about not checking on him. "What if you get sick?"

I fill a pot with stock and stick it on the stove. Dom has a point.

The thought drifted through my mind whenever Lachlan coughed, but I don't want to leave him alone. The reason why eludes me. I barely know him, but when he stared at me with his deep brown eyes and clung to me, my stomach fluttered and it was hard to keep my smile hidden. "I'll take some vitamin C and stay away from him unless he needs medicine or food. I've had my flu shot."

He's silent for a moment before agreeing. "I'll come by in the morning."

I hang up and add herbs to the broth. Am I entirely too willing and excited to take care of someone I barely know who cuddled me on the floor? Yes, but I'm going with it. It's not his fault he's sick and couldn't make it to the job. Clearly, he needs help on that end. Where are his employees—or boss, for that matter?

But… I can't leave him. I hate being alone when I'm sick. Unable to get medicine and food for myself. Having someone there to care for you makes the recovery process smoother and less painful. I won't rob him of that. This is my opportunity to learn more about him, to finally spend time with him. I'd been hoping to take the chance when he fixed my water, but we're here now—together—so I'll take it.

Besides, I kinda have the feeling if I was sick he'd help me.

Is it weird he noticed I changed my hair?

A quiet laugh escapes me as his snore echoes through the flat.

Leaving the broth to simmer, I collapse on his couch. He's heavy, and dragging him all over the flat was not something I prepared for, but at least there are books on my phone I can entertain myself with until he wakes.

His lounge has photos on the walls of who I assume are his family, and the coffee table is littered with remotes, but they look organised. I grab the fluffy blanket he left on the couch and drape it across me to snuggle into, inhaling his scent.

Or germs. I wrinkle my nose and take the blanket away from my face. The room is surprisingly cosy. Not at all what I thought Lachlan's home would look like. And I've imagined it. A lot.

It's an hour before the gentle snoring stops. I started another book and was so engrossed it takes a second for me to realise why it's silent. I push open his door gently and see him blinking at the ceiling, a dazed expression on his face.

"How are you?" I avoid looking at his chest. The one thing I hadn't done was attempt to dress him. I may be staying to look after him, but I highly doubt I'd manage to get anything on him considering how difficult it was for him to stand, so I decided not to try. Unfortunately.

"Chloe?" He tenses and his eyes dart around the room. It's a standard bedroom, dresser facing the bed with an old TV on it, a chair decorated with clothes. There's no reason for him to freak out.

I walk to the side of the bed. "I helped you to your room and gave you some medicine. Do you remember?"

He nods slowly as if the movement causes him pain. "What time is it?"

"Around four."

He tries to sit and groans, sinking back to the pillow. "Why does my whole body hurt?"

"You have the flu." He better remember everything because if he doesn't we definitely have a problem.

"I let a kid watch me on a job. I knew his cough was bad."

My lips twitch at the image. "Are you feeling any better?"

"The room's spinning less, so that's good."

No wonder he was falling everywhere. "I'll get you some food since you're up."

"Can I have more medicine?" His voice is hoarse.

"Not for another hour."

He pouts, and I bite back a smile. Adorable. "Food will help."

"Chlo." I stop by the door when he calls my name. "Does this mean you're staying?"

"For a little while."

He smiles at me, eyes bright as he thanks me softly.

The soup's been bubbling on the stove and I scoop some into a bowl, return to his room and set it on the bedside table. "You need to sit up more if you're going to eat."

He drags himself up slowly, grunting as he tries to get comfortable. I reach over him to grab another pillow and suck in a breath when my chest brushes his. Heat races through my body as I grip the pillow and jerk back, avoiding his gaze.

Nope. Can't think that way. He's sick. Definitely inappropriate to notice how firm his chest is.

I glance at him and see red creeping over his cheeks. Is it a fever or a reaction to me? "Lean forward, please."

If it is a fever, I'm definitely in over my head, but do I want him reacting to me? I smile brightly, ignore the fluttering in my stomach, and refuse to answer my question.

He plants his hands on the duvet and accidentally brushes my leg, but he doesn't move it as he leans forward. Tentatively, I grasp his bare shoulder and pull him towards me to stick another pillow behind his head so he can eat soup comfortably. His shoulder is warm, but not hot as I rearrange the pillows, and a shiver runs through him when my breath brushes his neck. Brown eyes follow me as I move, dark hair flatter on one side than the other.

A nudge from my hand and he's reclined on the pillows. He pants from the exertion, and I pass him a glass of water, which he gulps.

"Can you eat by yourself?" I glance at the steaming bowl. This might not be the best idea. If he spills it, he'll burn his bare skin, and he's not quick enough to dodge hot soup right now.

"You made me soup?"

"You need to eat something and soup is the best when you're sick."

His smile is faint. "Yeah, it is. I'll try hold it."

I grasp the bowl and hand it to him slowly, careful not to spill anything. Luckily the bowl's deep, so the edges aren't hot but pleasantly warm. Lachlan takes the bowl from me and perches it on the duvet covering his lap.

"Are you sure you can hold it? I don't want you to burn yourself." I frown at him, watching as he lifts the bowl while trying to hold the spoon. I gasp and lunge forward when his hands slip.

"Fuck." He closes his eyes as his chest shudders.

A hurried scan confirms he hasn't burned himself, thank god. "I think I'll hold the bowl, and you can hold the spoon."

He agrees, opens his eyes and wriggles a little more upright. Scooching closer on the bed, my hip brushes his covered thigh, and I hold the bowl at his chest level. He takes the spoon carefully and scoops up broth. Swallowing, his eyes widen.

"It's good." He eats more.

With each bite he takes, his eyes brighten and he gains a little bit of energy. It'll be short-lived as the medicine wears off, but at least he's getting sustenance. I don't necessarily enjoy cooking, but seeing him scrape the bowl satisfies something in me. He's feeling better because of me.

"Thank you." He sets the spoon in the bowl and smiles at me.

I grin back and take the bowl to the kitchen. He's impossible not to smile at. When I return to the room, he's reclined against the headboard, looking cosy.

I stay in the doorway. "You can't have more medicine for a while. Can I get you something else?"

"Pass me the remote?" he asks, pointing at the dressing table where the remote sits with pens scattered around it.

I hand it to him and perch on the other side of the bed, watching as he turns on the TV and clicks on Netflix.

"I'll stay in the lounge, so I'm out of your way. Let me know if you need anything." I stand, but a brush of his hand across my fingertips stops me from leaving.

"Will you watch TV with me?"

"In here?"

"Yeah."

"You don't want any more sleep?"

He shrugs. "I'll rest while we watch something. I've slept most of today already."

"I don't know if?—"

"I feel better when you're with me." He brushes my fingers again and I sink to the bed, keeping my distance, but not leaving like I should. Getting sick doesn't cross my mind. I'm too focused on what he said, and missing the warmth of his hand on mine which he removed when I sat down.

"I'll stay for a while. What do you want to watch?"

He puts the remote beside me on the bed. "Whatever you want."

"Really? It's a universal rule the sick person gets to choose." I nudge the remote closer to him, but he doesn't look at it. His eyes stay on my face.

"Nah. You're helping me, so you choose."

I tilt my head. "Yeah?"

"It means I get to learn something about you. Will you choose a movie or a TV show? Reality, sitcom, or drama?"

If he's offering me all the power, who am I to turn it down? I grasp the remote to click through the options and stumble across the watched previously. "You like Friends ?"

"What's not to like? Besides a few outdated ideas, it has everything you need in a sitcom. Funny characters and mindless stories."

"So long as you don't like Ross, we'll get on just fine." I press play on season two, lean against the headboard, and cautiously swing my legs on the bed. If we're watching TV, I'm not going to perch on the mattress.

"More of a Joey guy."

"I don't trust people who don't like Joey." I squirm around trying to get comfortable. Lachlan has both the pillows meaning my back is against the cold headboard.

He laughs at something Chandler says on the screen. Even though I've only known him a short while, it's relaxing lying here with him, like I can breathe. I've watched him for so long and only truly spoken to him today, but it feels natural. Like I'm supposed to be here. Working long hours trying to get the salon running again, I'd almost forgotten how nice it is to lie in bed and watch TV with someone.

I jump when something hits my shoulder. A glance confirms it's a pillow.

"You're sitting instead of lying."

Lach had found the energy to take the second pillow I'd manoeuvred behind him and thrown it beside me. The covers are tucked near his chin, and he's lying on his side, edging closer to me.

"You don't want it?"

"You don't look comfy." He removes a hand from the covers and nudges the pillow at me when I don't take it. "You should be comfy."

I put the pillow behind me and shimmy down a little, not fully lying down, but reclining next to him on top of the covers.

He nods, seeming satisfied, and turns his head to the TV.

"Do you enjoy being a hairdresser?" Lachlan murmurs, keeping his attention on Friends .

I smile. "I love it. Making someone feel amazing and comfortable in their own skin. It gives me a rush."

"I bet you're amazing at it. Your hair always looks good. Soft."

I huff a laugh and glance at him. He's definitely delirious again, but I'm not complaining. He's gazing up at me and rolls closer until he's pressed against me. "You like my hair?"

His chin dips. "You leave it down when you work and tie it up when you finish for the day."

"How do you know that?" I can't keep the shock from my voice.

No one's ever noticed before. He's right. I always leave it loose when I work, I'm a hairdresser, clients need to see good hair. But as soon as I finish, it's tied up, out of my face and off my neck. Sometimes I forget to carry hair ties and have to beg Isla for them.

"At the bar, you always put it in a twisty clip thing." He drops his gaze and nudges his head against my arm, stubble scraping deliciously against me. "It looks different today."

"I cut it early this morning. Stress got to me."

"About what?"

I bite the inside of my cheek, deliberating if I should be honest with him. Don't want him to think I'm insane, but…he notices my hair. "Getting the salon ready. There's still so much to do," I shrug. "So I cut my hair. It's sort of therapeutic, but also forces me to focus on something else." I needed to if I wanted any sleep.

"And now you're more stressed because I didn't fix the water." He tilts his head so his eyes can meet mine; his hair brushes my arm sending shivers through me. His eyes are dark and intense, demanding my attention. "I'm going to fix it tomorrow. Don't stress."

"You might not feel better tomorrow?—"

"Don't care. Won't have you stressed."

"Lachlan, I don't want you feeling worse."

"I don't want you stressed," he growls at me.

A thrill runs through me. "Okay." I decide not to argue. If he's as sick as he is now, there's no way he'll be able to fix the water, but I don't want him to get worked up and hurt himself over nothing. It isn't a big deal. So the salon doesn't currently have hot water, I'll figure it out. The goal is to get him better.

"Good." His head drops against my arm, and he turns to the TV—as if we just had a normal conversation.

"Do you like being a plumber?"

He lifts a shoulder. "Something to do. It helps people a little, which is nice. I prefer the business side of it."

"If you prefer the business side, why were you coming to the salon? You could have sent someone else."

"Mm. They would've if they knew you needed your water fixed."

"Huh?" He wriggles closer and his weight becomes heavier. He's nearly asleep, but I refuse to let him, not until he explains himself. "What do you mean they didn't know? Surely they know you're sick and would take the clients allocated to you?"

"They know I'm sick."

"So why wasn't someone else sent to me?" I cup his cheek and gently force him to meet my gaze. His brown eyes are drowsy and warm as they stare at me.

"I didn't tell them, so I'd have to come." He presses a kiss on my bare arm. "Don't trust them to fix it right."

Warmth radiates from my arm through my body, and I suppress a shiver. "You wanted to come?"

"Yeah, baby. Gotta make sure the plumbing is up to my standard. Don't want anyone fucking up your salon."

He presses another kiss on my arm, throws his arm over my body and burrows into me. On his wrist, he's wearing a pink scrunchie.

I blink at Friends running on the screen. What just happened? As he falls asleep clutching me, I try to untangle everything he said. I wrap an arm around his back and draw mindless circles on his bare skin. He huffs softly and rubs against me. He's like a cat. A large cuddly cat who demands affection, and apparently doesn't want anyone else touching my plumbing.

I bite my lip, brush hair out of his face and hug him close.