Stone Cold

Chapter 4

For the next four days, I spend my time sweating and coughing between attacks of cold shivers and nausea. The fever that now owns my ass makes even going to the toilet an almost impossible task. Lena and Eloise came to check on me yesterday, both feeling guilty about my state. They brought me homemade broth, tissues, medicine, and a hot water bottle for my shivers. Lena did all my dishes, while Eloise changed my sheets and did a wash. I thanked them and fell asleep before they left. This morning, I found their note on my dresser, informing me they'll be sending me dinner today.

So when a doorbell rings around seven, I don't even bother to try and fix my disheveled appearance. Tightening the rope of my well-worn yellow robe, I drag myself to the door, while my head pounds in the rhythm of my steps.

In my doorway is a man. A handsome, casually dressed, suspiciously smiling man. It takes me a minute to place him.

"Max?" I croak out, before enduring a violent coughing attack. His face falls.

"You are sick," he says, surprised. I shoot him a judgemental look between my coughs.

"What are you doing here?" I finally manage to ask, scratching my throat, itching from inside. He raises his left hand, holding a bag full of containers.

"I brought you dinner?" He answers, uncertain. Worried. I think it odd, and, admittedly, kind of sweet. Jesus, I must really look like the undead if even this guy finds me pathetic.

"Thank you," I mellow down, my stomach rolling at the smell of cooked food. Having spent the day hovering somewhere between shaky sleep and feverish haze, I only had a modest piece of toast with butter for lunch. A warm meal sounds too appealing to pass, even if Max is the one delivering it. "I'll take it from here," I say and reach for the bag, but as soon as I let go of the door, I sway toward him. He catches me in his arms, the bag swinging and hitting my hip.

"You're ridiculous," he chides with a chuckle and picks me up with ease.

"Hey," I meekly protest, the room spinning around. He carries me into the living room, smelling of freshly laundered clothes. The smell makes me want to puke. Fortunately, he gently places me on the sofa before the urge becomes too much.

"Stay there," he orders before disappearing into the kitchen. I lay down, covering my face with a pillow, hoping I'm hallucinating. Meanwhile, I hear him going through my cabinets. The clanking of the dishes, the squeak of the utensil drawer, the slushing of the soup poured into a plate. After a while, he returns.

"Up, Nathalie," he says, and moves the pillow away from my face, "You need to eat."

"Why are you here?" I squint at him, slowly getting up. "More importantly, what gave you the idea you can just barge into my flat and order me around?"

He shakes his head like he's dealing with a petulant child, rudely moving my blanket to the chair before planting himself next to me. I try to stare him down, but he just gives me a side glance and smiles. A dimple forms on his cheek.

"If you think you can scare me off while looking like a light draft would end you, you must be delirious. Now, can you eat alone or do you need me to feed you?" He takes a bowl filled with what looks like hot noodle soup and offers it to me.

"I can feed myself, thank you," I say defiantly, straightening up and taking the bowl from him. He watches me keenly, probably waiting for me to spill some soup. When he's sure I won't, he leans back on the sofa.

"As for why I'm here, Eloise sent me," he finally says.

I cough. "Impossible."

"She said you're dying to see me again. I didn't think she was serious, though," he grins, happy with his little joke.