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)
They’ll survive. I think. Though Ashton has insisted on dictating her will into her voice memo app in between blowing her nose. Just in case.
Holly shoots over a crying face. The poor thing. I get it. Being sick is the WORST.
Agreed. Still, I’m sorry that I have to cancel. I hope you can forgive me.
The dots appear again, pulsing for quite a bit longer this time, before—Luke Ratcliffe, are you seriously asking for forgiveness for taking care of your sick family? Don’t be crazy, Grumpy. You’re being a good big brother, and I’m proud of you. Also, I confess…I’m a teensy tiny bit hungover. I never have more than one drink, and those Old Fashioneds weren’t messing around. It’s probably a good idea for me to stay home tonight and reflect on the consequences of my party girl actions.
I grin down at the phone. You’re the farthest thing from a party girl. You’re a gingerbread house champion who had every right to celebrate a little more than usual.
You know what? You’re right! I’m going to go look at my medal again right now while I have coffee and gloat some more. Her smug-looking emoji makes me chuckle. I don’t think I gloated enough last night, do you?
Not nearly enough. You should gloat for the entire weekend. Bare minimum.
She shoots over a heart emoji, and I like the way you think.
I shoot back an arched brow emoji, and I like the way you kiss.
I like the way you kiss, too. And I’m looking forward to kissing you some more at your earliest convenience. So, don’t get sick. Go wrap yourself in plastic wrap or something, okay?
I’m about to text back that I’m pretty sure that’s a good way to suffocate, but that I’ll figure something out, when Elliot calls from the other room, “Luke! We’re already out of tissues. Can you grab some toilet paper to tide them over until the grocery delivery arrives?”
I have to go, I text instead. Duty calls.
Go forth and nurse, Nurse Ratcliffe! Hope everyone feels better soon! xo
That “xo” again…
I stare at it for a little too long before pocketing my phone and heading back to the disaster zone that is now the mansion’s living room.
By the evening, the situation has deteriorated significantly.
Around five o’clock, Elliot, who has been looking progressively paler throughout the afternoon, finally admits defeat and retreats to his room with the beginnings of fever and chills.
Which leaves me the last Ratcliffe standing.
I survey the living room, which now looks more like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Used tissues overflow from both trash cans. Empty ginger ale cans litter the coffee table. Someone—I’m guessing Bran—has left a damp towel on the floor that I nearly slip on while tidying up.
Ashton is asleep, finally, her face flushed but peaceful. Bran is awake but silent, staring at some nature documentary with the glazed expression of someone whose brain has gone numb with suffering.
I wipe down the tables, take Bran’s temperature again just to be safe, dispense medication, and refill their water bottles with the mechanical efficiency of a man who’s definitely not cut out for this kind of nurturing but is too stubborn to fail at it.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket near seven, I lunge for it like a lifeline.
HOLLY: How are the patients, Nurse Ratcliffe?
LUKE: Multiplying with every passing minute. Elliot went down a few hours ago, and the living room looks like a war zone.
HOLLY: Oh no! So, you’re the last line of defense against the dark forces of the plague?
LUKE: I am. And I’m starting to think nurses should be paid more. Much more.
HOLLY: No doubt. Send me a picture of the war zone. I will empathize with you from afar.
I glance around the living room, at the blanket-covered lumps that are my siblings, the medication bottles lined up on the coffee table, the dirty tissues that have already begun to respawn mere moments after I emptied the trash.
It’s messy. Too messy to be something I’d usually feel comfortable sharing.
But this is Holly…
Taking a step back, I snap a photo and send it.
Her response is immediate: OMG, you poor thing. That looks miserable. Here, I’ll send you something cheerful to balance out all the sickly vibes.
A photo appears on my screen. It’s the corgi from the pet photo shoot two Fridays ago, wearing a tiny Santa hat, looking at the camera with a joy I know only Holly could have coaxed out of her.
I find myself grinning like a fool again, but Elliot isn’t around to tease me, so…who cares? Cute, I shoot back. Very, very cute.
HOLLY: I know! Aw, I love her. So, have you eaten yet? Remember, you have to keep yourself fueled for the fight.
LUKE: I’m fine. I’ll warm up something from the freezer later.
HOLLY: Nope. Not going to work. If you don’t send me proof of real food in the next hour, I’m calling in reinforcements.