Hey! Sorry for the lack of uploads. This Author still has exams biting her in the ass. It's a wonder I'm still writing actually. I've come bearing gifts, though! This chapter is one of my favorites to write and I just hope it becomes one of your favorites to read, x.

Two hours, five soliloquies, and three paces later, Shanya was knocking on Paris' front door. The chilly wind was biting at her skin even though she'd worn sweatpants and a rather long sweatshirt, complete with black Jordans. Crickets, mosquitoes, and the subtle croaking of frogs sang about her and she winced. It was most likely ten o'clock at this point. She would've been in bed, sleeping like a newborn babe. This was probably a bad idea. She had absolutely no business here, not this late in the night. He hadn't wanted her help anyway so she would've been better off at home, in her sweet bed, under those cozy blankets.

For a split second, she considered turning back. But upon hearing the weak footsteps approaching from inside the estate, she decided she'd made the right decision in not leaving him to rot.

Paris opened the door a fraction, then a little wider.

"Geez. You look like PMS and the flu had a baby," she remarked, peering at him with open honesty. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips were parched and turning a fine shade of blue, his blue shirt soaked through with sweat and his normally pressed brown hair was tousled and unkempt. As if he'd been tossing and turning in bed all day. His lips moved to say something probably rude but she interrupted him.

"Where's Martha?"

"I'm sending her home. She's making too much of a fuss." Paris drawled impatiently as if every single syllable was a calculated effort. Said fuss-maker appeared behind him, a duffel bag pressed angrily to her enormous bosom, pinning him with a glare that would have sent wild beasts fleeing.

She turned to Shanya, a tiny flicker of relief on her face. Much like how she'd sounded when Shanya had called her an hour earlier to ask after Paris and to let her know she was coming. They might have said all of five sentences to each other for the past eight weeks but Shanya rather liked her, perhaps more than she was willing to admit. It seemed a far cry to hope the feeling was mutual.

"Here," she said, as she brushed past Paris and stood before Shanya on the threshold without so much as a how do you do. "He needs to take two of these before he goes to bed and two of these in the morning." Two white tablets were dumped on Shanya's waiting hands before she could even blink.

With another glare thrown at Paris and a rather cordial look at Shanya, Martha muttered, "Good luck" before strutting off towards the black gate.

Shanya waited until Martha's large frame disappeared behind the iron gate before facing her strong-headed fiancee.

"You won't find me such easy prey."

Paris scoffed, dragging his calloused fingers through his untamed brown curls. "She's known me since I was a toddler, and the only reason she's stayed this long is because she knows when to quit."

Shanya merely breezed past him and headed straight for the kitchen, dumping the contents on her hand on the black counter. Then she reached for her bag and emptied out the supplies she'd brought with her from home.

Paris cursed behind her, grumbling something about God saving him from interfering females. Shanya deliberately refused to pay any heed to him as she expertly arranged her supplies in their order of importance, the Moringa plant being the first. Now she just needed to get honey and a few lemons. As she was already familiar with the place, it wasn't hard for her to find and fish out her targets situated in the cupboard on her immediate right. She reached for the tiny silver pot in the lower cupboard beneath the sink and set it on the stove.

"What are you doing."

Shanya finally turned towards him, smiling sweetly. "Isn't it obvious? I'm preparing something that will help you get better."

She watched as Paris struggled to take in a few breaths.

"I don't need it. I have the medicine for that. So you can be on your way."

My, he's even grumpier when he's ill.

"We both know you won't lay a finger on those medicines even if there was a gun to your head." That earned her a growl. No matter, she was going to crush the precise amount of medicine he needed into her little pot of soup. "You might be okay with dying but I'll rather my investment remain healthy and alive. When I get what I'm owed, then, by all means, kill yourself."

She lifted the Moringa plant from where it lay on the counter, and gently plucked out its tiny leaves one at a time.

Paris closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he might as well have thrown actual daggers at her face. "Just go. You can't even cook. You told me so yourself."

"This is different,'' she argued, continuing her leaf cutting. "It's a home remedy, doesn't take a lot of effort. I used to make it a lot for my dad when he got sick."

Paris turned a little somber at that and gave her a skeptical look. He looked so pale, beads of sweat trickling down his face and seeping through his blue shirt, his beautiful grey eyes red and hazy—and he was only suffering from what she suspected was a mild fever. She mentally shook her head.

"Look, Grey eyes, just go to your room, okay? You look like you're about to fall on your face any minute now. I'll bring this to you when it's ready."

Paris stared at her for a beat, no doubt contemplating whether or not to hurl her out on her ass. She hoped he wouldn't. Despite her words, she really wanted to help him.

Something momentarily flickered in his expression that she couldn't quite read.

"Don't burn the house down," was all he said as he turned on his heels and left.

* * * *

Paris laid in bed feeling both mortified and pleased. The last thing he needed right now was for the fiery Shanya to see him in this state—so weak and snorty. He'd been surprised to see her at his door, pretty and determined, her natural hair in a low puff adorned with a pink, dragon-designed headband. She'd looked like she was merely going to see a friend. And when she was rummaging around in his kitchen, so comfortable and familiar with it, he'd felt his heart tug. Felt his very gut shift at the sight of it. Heather had never been in his kitchen. Never. Coming to think of it, the only women he'd actually seen in there were his sister and Martha.

He stopped short. What was he doing?

He'd been finding himself comparing his girlfriend to his fake fiance for the past two months. Shutting his eyes tight, he willed his mind to remain blank and focused on the soft approach of footsteps.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Paris?" Shanya called.

"It's open," he muttered, trying not to enjoy the way his name sounded on her lips. He failed.

He attempted to sit straighter on his bed but only managed a flimsy pose. There was a pause and then she opened the door—with her elbow as each hand was holding a large green bowl. A small white towel hung over her right shoulder. One look around his room and her eyes widened. He watched as she used her heel to click the door shut, and set the bowls on his marble table against the wall before standing up straight to practically gawk at his bedroom.

She moved around slowly, touching everything she set her eyes on. His goldfish pond, the bronze mantelpiece, the brown desk at the circumference of the room, the exquisite turquoise lace curtains dangling lazily from the windows, perfectly complimenting the gray husk of the flawless tiles designed in archaic symbols with a hint of black. He had a feeling if she could, she would have reached up to play with the chandeliers hanging on the shingled ceiling. He was suddenly very thankful for the white light brightening up his room which allowed him to see every emotion that washed across her face. She walked to the window and peered down. And he could have sworn he heard her squeal.

Finally, she turned around. For a minute, he thought she wouldn't say anything, but her eyes darted towards him and she grinned.

"If you'd shown me this room the very first time around, I would never have left."

Something happened when those unexpected words flew out of her mouth—his heart leaped to his throat. But she simply went back to gazing in abject awe at his room, her brown eyes held no filter as she openly admired every inch of it. She had the same look she did when he'd given her a tour of his estate two months ago.

"This is by far the most beautiful room I have ever seen. And I've seen a lot of beautiful rooms."

His heart tightened at the sincerity in her voice, the pure raw emotion embedded in each word. He was absolutely speechless. Never had he met someone so awestruck by something as simple as the colors of a room or how each intricate design and assortment seemed to bring everything to life.

"How do you feel?' she asked, walking up to where she'd kept the green bowls. He suddenly realized he'd been quiet for over a minute. Reaching inside his brain for something to say that wouldn't make him sound like a complete dingbat, he cleared his throat as he watched her bring the broth towards him and set it on his night stand.

"Like I'm the love product of PMS and the flu."

Laughing sympathetically, she sat at the edge of his bed next to him and he suddenly felt queasy. He ignored it and tried to get himself into a more comfortable sitting position. Again.

"Here, let me help you." She picked up his huge white pillow and pressed it up against his headboard. Slowly and gently, she sat him up properly, then cradling his head, she guided his body up against the pillow.

He caught a whiff of her scent in the action. She smelled of lavender soap and cinnamon. Wild and sweet. Much like her, he had begun to realize. He blinked away that train of thought and glanced at the contents of the green bowls she'd brought. One had clear water and the other had a hot, light, green liquid. The potent smell of leaves and lemons filled his nostrils.

He made a face. "Do I wanna know?"

She shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Take off your shirt."

He blinked. Once, twice, three times, and she laughed out loud. "Don't worry, Sailor, I'm only trying to get you comfortable. You've soaked right through it. And you have a fever. You need to wear as little clothes as possible."

Paris nodded, half embarrassed that his mind had gone where it did.

"And you've done this before?" he felt the need to ask, as he struggled to take his shirt off. She reached towards him and helped him in the process. More of that lavender-cinnamon scent drifted towards him and he inhaled it, quietly. At some point, his elbows brushed against her breast and he stilled. Utterly. Stilled. Goosebumps played around his arms.

This was ridiculous. He was acting like a complete virgin. How was one very mouthy girl able to elicit such a reaction from him?

He let her take his shirt off all the way, no interference from him.

"Yes," she breathed after setting his drenched shirt on the tiled floor, releasing a soft laugh. He backpedaled a little and remembered he'd asked her a question. "Several times."

Paris found himself focusing on the sound of her laugh. Rich, full, and feminine. His mind went back to one Friday evening in his living room when they'd been watching Weekend at Bernie's. She'd laughed and laughed, clapping her hands loudly then held her stomach, writhing in pain due to the lack of air entering her lungs. He'd marveled over that sight for days.

"You can't blame me for asking. I'm in a vulnerable state, utterly open to food poisoning."

"Tempting", was all she said, a sly grin playing at her lips as she took the small white towel from her shoulder and dipped it in the bowl of water. "Lay still," she ordered as she squeezed out the liquid, folded the small towel horizontally into two before setting it gently on his temple.

He flinched as the cold fabric seared through his hot head. She let it rest there for almost a minute before removing it and returning it into the bowl for another squeeze. He nearly released a sigh of relief at the way his temple cooled off momentarily. But it was short-lived as she brought the freezing towel right back. He gritted his teeth.

They sat in silence, their breathing being the only sound as she made quick work of wiping his burning chest with the cold towel over and over again. He watched her move expertly around his body, only touching where she needed to. and knew she'd been telling the truth when she'd said she'd done this before. He wondered what it must've been like, caring for her dad by the hour and how devastated she must've felt when he died. She rarely spoke about her family but when she did, she only spoke with love for her father, a glimmer of pain flashing across her eyes, so real and endless. And it gutted him.

He fought against the urge to reach for her and brush his hands lightly against her slender cheek. She was awaking feelings in him he'd thought only Heather could.

"Open your mouth," she ordered, setting the towel into the bowl. She scooped the hot green liquid into the teaspoon and brought it to his lips.

"I can feed myself, you know," he said, mentally shaking his head as if doing so would rid him of his traitorous thoughts as he reached for the spoon.

" No," Shanya said, moving it away from his reach. "You can't even lift yourself up from your bed."

"It's a spoon, Wood."

"And you've got a fever. I'm not about to become infected just because you're prideful."

Paris groaned. The last thing he needed right now was an argument with this chocolate troublemaker. If past experiences were any reminder, he never won. Still...

"I think I can manage."

"Paris, shut up, and let me feed you."

He paused for a bit, his eyes searching hers. And it was only because of the silent plea in those deep brown pools that he opened his mouth. She guided the spoon in with a smile. When the content touched his lips, he decided it wasn't that bad but was still far from palatable.

"It has a weird taste."

She smiled, her only dimple flashing on her right cheek. "If you'd just taken the medicine Martha tried to give you, you wouldn't have to go through this. It's just pills, water, and a swallow. Done in no time. Which adult runs away from that, for heaven's sake?"

He grinned despite himself. "Guess I'm a baby."

Six spoons of broth later, she moved closer, touching his temple with her palm. "You're burning up. Again."

He felt like he was, but he knew better than to blame it entirely on the sickness. Once again, he was engulfed by her rich scent. The feel of her soft feather-like palm on his naked skin was so electrifying he wanted to move away, but also stay right where he was.

Shanya reached for the white towel and repeated the whole process she did before. When she pressed the cold, wet cloth on his temple, he jerked.

"Sorry," she whispered, leaning in a little and letting her hand rest on his forehead.

Their position was in such a way that they had nowhere to look but directly at each other's eyes. Deep brown eyes stared at him intensely, as if trying to read his thoughts. He was glad she couldn't. One look and she'd be out without a moment's glance. He held his breath as he watched her watch him, her silent scrutiny almost causing him to break the silence hell-bent on destroying him. Destroying the man he claimed he was. He focused instead on her beautifully carved face. She had such delicate yet strong features more defined by the way she had her hair up as she did now. His eyes traveled down to her lips. Soft and full. With a light shade of pink. She sucked in a breath just then and he gulped as she in turn stared at his lips. Their symphonized hearts beating one thunderous tempo after another.

He tried adjusting his head comfortably but the action only brought him closer to her so that their lips nearly touched.

He froze. If she so much as moved a tiny inch closer, they would be kissing. A kiss he'd just realized he wanted with every fiber of his being. He wondered if her lips were as good to the touch as they looked. If they were as wild and exotic as her personality. Good God, he was going to hell.

Had he lost his mind? He was in love with Heather. Only Heather. His redhead beauty. Not this chocolate troublemaker with beckoning lips. Someone he'd initially despised because of her thirst for materialistic things. And even though he'd soon come to realize she was much more than that—was strong, caring, passionate, brilliant, ambitious, and really, really funny—he reminded himself of what she was, to him, to his and Heather's plan.

Removing the cloth from his head, he pushed his body up away from her. "I think that's enough for now."

Shanya blinked, then nodded once and he could have sworn he saw relief flicker through her features as she rubbed her clammy hands up and down her sweats.

"I'll be on the couch over there." She pointed towards his large mahogany couch just a foot away from his bed. "You'll need someone to tend to you during the night so I won't be going home."

Awkwardly, she took his blue duvet and covered him up to the neck. Then took his other duvet with the dotted design—his favorite—and moved over to the couch right across from him, settling herself in.

Slowly, he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

A/n: Hmm. What did ya'll think about this steamy chapter? Can anyone guess what these scandalous two will be up to in the next?

I'd tell you, but why ruin the fun? I'd certainly not wanna betray all your trusting votes:-)