Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Manchester is an hour’s drive each way, and I want to make dinner reservations at that Italian place Elliot recommended before the concert. I intend to give Holly another “best time” tonight, then kiss her senseless on her porch all over again.
Smiling like an idiot, I head downstairs, ready to share some of this uncharacteristic Saturday morning cheer with my siblings.
Unfortunately, the scene that greets me in the living room is the furthest thing from cheery…
Ashton is sprawled on the leather sofa, wrapped in what appears to be every fleece blanket in the basket by the fire, her normally perfect blonde hair plastered to her forehead. She emits a low, continuous moan that would be concerning if it weren’t so dramatically over-the-top.
Bran is on the other sofa, in a similar condition, though he’s gone for the stoic suffering approach, lying with his eyes closed and one arm flung over his face like a Victorian lady with the vapors.
Elliot stands between them, clutching a thermometer with the frazzled expression of someone who’s been forced to start putting out fires before he’s had coffee.
“Oh, good, there you are,” he says when he spots me, exhaling a relieved rush of breath. “And you’re not dying of the plague. Thank God. They both woke up like this fifteen minutes ago. I was afraid I was going to be the only nurse on duty.”
“I’m dying,” Ashton announces weakly. “Tell my roommate, Lucy, that I love her. And that she can have the dresses Chalet Nord gave me during fashion week.”
“You’re not dying,” Elliot says, checking the thermometer. “You have a fever of 101. That’s practically nothing.”
“It feels like 110,” she whimpers.
Bran groans from his sofa. “Can someone please turn down the sun? It’s too loud.”
I grunt as I move deeper into the room, coming to stand beside Elliot. “How bad is it, do you think?”
“Bad enough that they’re not going anywhere for at least a few days,” he says grimly. “I already called Dr. Morrison. She said it’s probably the flu that’s been making the rounds in Reindeer Corners. They just need the usual—rest, fluids, pain killers.” He wrinkles his nose before adding in a softer voice, “But if their fever spikes or they start yarfing and can’t keep fluids down, the doctor said we should take them to the hospital. Apparently, this strain is nothing to play around with.”
My mind begins running calculations. Someone needs to be here to monitor them, make sure they’re hydrated, keep track of their temperatures, and ensure we’re fully supplied with the necessary ammunition to fight two nasty cases of the flu.
And there’s no way I’m asking the maids, the cook, or Arthur to come in today.
“I’ll text the staff and tell them to stay home,” I say, pulling out my cell. “No need for them to risk exposure.”
Elliot nods. “Sounds good. I can stay with the sicklies today and tonight.” He shoots a small smile my way. “I’m assuming you have plans?”
I do have plans.
But looking at my siblings—both of whom are genuinely miserable, even if Ashton is hamming it up a bit—I know what I have to do. I can’t leave Elliot here alone, and I can’t risk exposing Holly to the flu if I’ve already been infected.
“No, we’re in this together, brother,” I assure him, clapping him on the shoulder. “If you want to get them water and something for their fever, I’ll make coffee and place a grocery delivery order.”
“Coffee. God, yes.” Elliot’s shoulders sag. “Thank you. So much. Be sure to order plenty of Sprite and Ginger Ale and that electrolyte drink they give to kids when they’re dehydrated. Oh, and plain crackers and white bread. And extra tissues and disinfectant wipes. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
Over the next hour, we triage our patients with ginger ale, water, and trash cans strategically positioned for used tissues (and possible yarfing). I locate the digital thermometer in the hall bath on the second floor, sparing us the strain of squinting at the mercury in the old one, and sketch out a medication schedule that won’t result in accidental overdoses.
By the time we’re done, the living room looks like a proper sick room, and it’s late enough to text Holly without risking waking her up on a lazy Saturday.
I find a quiet corner in the library, away from the groaning and the blaring of the telenovelas Ashton insisted on watching to work on her Spanish—even as she complained that thinking in another language was making her headache worse.
Pulling out my phone, I relay the latest, unfortunate developments—Bad news. Ashton and Bran came down with the flu. I’m going to have to cancel tonight. I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to it.
Almost instantly, three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. Oh no! Poor Ashton and Bran. Are they okay?