He Wouldn't Claim Me — Another Man Did-Chapter 64 - 57: Vomiting (2)

The moment she heard it was contagious, Isla Prescott immediately raised a hand to push Shane Sterling away. But she had no strength, and Shane Sterling remained as solid as a rock, not even swaying in the slightest.

"Stay away from me," she said.

Shane Sterling stubbornly kept his arms around her. "I’m not that weak. I won’t get sick."

Isla Prescott was still worried, so she asked the doctor for two disposable masks. She put one on and had Shane Sterling wear the other. She knew they had been in close contact for too long on their way over, that the window for effective isolation had long passed. Still, even if it was like locking the barn door after the horse had bolted, it offered her more peace of mind than just doing nothing.

After getting her prescription, Isla Prescott took an ibuprofen pill right there at the hospital. After waiting a little longer, she hadn’t thrown up again and her temperature had started to drop, so the two of them headed home.

The early morning streets were quiet. Occasionally, a car would roll over a speed bump with a THUD, and the entire street seemed to tremble along with it.

To keep her distance from Shane Sterling, Isla Prescott intentionally chose the back seat diagonally opposite the driver’s when she got in the car.

"I can’t even check your forehead with you all the way back there," Shane Sterling said, looking back at her while they waited at a red light. "Does it make a difference if you sit there or in the passenger seat? We’re in the same enclosed space either way."

"In my mind, there’s a difference."

"You’re pretty good at lying to yourself."

"I just don’t want to get you sick."

"Then keep your mask on tight, lean over, and let me check your forehead."

"You just checked when we got in the car," Isla Prescott reminded him, a little exasperated. "The fever broke. It’s been less than ten minutes. Even if I were white phosphorus, I couldn’t spontaneously combust this quickly."

Shane Sterling seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "You have the energy for a speech like that. I guess I don’t have to worry anymore."

It was already four in the morning when they returned home. The first light of dawn was quietly eating away at the darkness, and the first shift of sanitation workers was beginning to sweep the city clean.

"You should go get some sleep," Isla Prescott said to Shane Sterling. "I’ve kept you up all night."

She knew how precious his time to rest was, which only made her feel guiltier.

Shane Sterling looked utterly exasperated. "I’ll give you one chance to rephrase that."

Isla Prescott reflected for a few seconds and concluded that the word "kept" must have struck a nerve.

She started over. "Go get some sleep. If I start feeling unwell again, I’ll call you immediately."

"Oh, really? You’re not worried about ’keeping’ me anymore?"

"Nope."

"Liar."

"Really, you should go get some sleep."

"I’m a light sleeper. Once I miss my window, it’s hard for me to fall asleep."

"What are you going to do, then?"

He leaned toward her shamelessly. "Maybe I’d sleep a little better if I held you."

Isla Prescott held up a hand to stop him. "Young Mr. Shaw, is there something wrong with your hearing? I have norovirus. It’s contagious!"

As she spoke, she couldn’t help but yawn under her mask.

After being run ragged all night, her battery was nearly at zero.

Shane Sterling stopped teasing her. "You go get some sleep."

"What about you?"

"I’ll leave after you fall asleep."

"Alright. I fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow. You can leave in a minute."

Shane Sterling smiled and gestured for her to go.

Isla Prescott went back to her room and, sure enough, she was out the moment her head hit the pillow.

She slept until noon. When she woke up, her stomach wasn’t bothering her as much, but she still felt weak and drained of all energy.

Isla Prescott had no idea when Shane Sterling left, but he’d left a note for her on the nightstand. It said he’d made her some plain congee, which was in the rice cooker in the kitchen.

His handwriting was beautiful—strong and forceful. However, Isla Prescott was doubtful about his ability to make congee.

She went to the kitchen to check and, sure enough, the young master had added too little water. His so-called congee had turned into a pot of plain white rice.

’Luckily, it’s salvageable.’

Isla Prescott added a large bowl of water to the pot and pressed the "Porridge" button again.

Just as the aroma of the congee began to fill the air, Shane Sterling arrived.

He was wearing a button-down shirt, dress pants, and a tie. He clearly just came from some formal event, yet he was incongruously carrying a bag of fruit.

"Are you feeling any better?" The first thing he did upon entering was touch her forehead. Once he was sure her fever hadn’t returned, he asked, "Did you throw up at all this morning?"

"I’m fine. No more throwing up."

"That’s good. By the way, did you see the congee I made you?"

"I saw it. I was just about to have some."

"Let me get you a bowl."

He grabbed a bowl and opened the rice cooker. Seeing the thick, smooth congee in the pot, a smug look spread across his face. "I think I might have a hidden talent for cooking. Making congee that looks this good on the very first try."

’He had that same cocky look on his face as the night he’d skipped a stone perfectly and was begging for praise.’

Isla Prescott didn’t call him out on it immediately. Instead, she gave him a thumbs-up. "You’re incredible. Are you sure you’re not the God of Cookery reincarnated?"

Shane Sterling gave her his signature polite smile.

Isla Prescott shrugged. "Was my praise not good enough?"

"I’m satisfied. Keep it up."

"I finally understand now," Isla Prescott said, suddenly changing her tune.

"Understand what?"

"It’s true what they say. Once you reach a certain level, it’s hard to hear the truth from anyone."

"I’m going to need you to elaborate on the context behind that particular sentiment."

Isla Prescott opened the photo gallery on her phone. The first picture was of a pot of white rice.

She showed it to Shane Sterling.

Shane Sterling asked, "What’s this?"

"The rice you cooked."

"When did I cook rice...?" He stopped, then it dawned on him. "I didn’t add enough water, did I?"

"Yep."

"That can’t be right... I Googled it..."

’He hadn’t just Googled it. He’d even weighed the rice on a scale and used a flashlight to see the measurement lines inside the pot. He had clearly followed the instructions for making congee to the letter, so how did it turn into a pot of rice?’

From the way he trailed off, Isla Prescott guessed that he had spent quite a bit of time on that congee.

"If you spent all that time making congee, did you even sleep?" she asked.

"I slept."

"How long did you sleep?"

"Not long," he said, brushing it off.

"Aren’t you tired?"

"I’m fine. I had an important meeting this morning that I couldn’t get out of. It just ended, so I came back to catch up on some sleep."

She quickly took the bowl from him. "Then go get some sleep."

He gazed at her with pleading eyes. "So I really can’t sleep here?"