Even The Weak Can Be Wicked (PLAYBOOK #2)

CHAPTER 6: One doctor too many

JESSICA

"Thank you Dr Henry."

I finally say now that I know he doesn't expect any special payback. "Thank you, thank you and thank you."

I could kiss him, I am so jubilant and relieved.

"You are welcome—" I leap into his arms the way Vecker does when she hugs me but he immediately tenses. "Uh, Jessica though I understand your relief, I must say I don't like being touched very much."

Oh.

"Oh, sorry." I remove my arms from his upper body and put space between us.

He has a very firm and strong upper body that turned into a rock the moment I touched it. My boss can't look me in the eye or be in contact with me without recoiling but he can easily pour money into my education without giving it a second thought.

The irony itself is hilarious and a little hurtful.

"It's okay," he fidgets awkwardly. "But I must warn, the money comes with conditions."

I pause and give him a warning look.

"No more eating take-out every day, okay? It's not good for your health. I checked and your school canteen offers a variety of balanced meals and I bought groceries suited for your diet so you can eat at home, no more excuses."

"But—" I don't understand.

"It's good to indulge but it can't be good for your figure, eating junk food every day. You look like a woman that cares about that type of thing and it is bound to catch up."

I shrink because he just unintentionally fat shamed me but I am more worried about my outfit when he gives me a once over.

I'm in a long sleeve white blouse with an oval collar and black khakis, my hair in its everyday ballet bun. I look like an elementary teacher.

"Okay but I wasn't kidding when I said I couldn't cook," which is okay since I don't really eat much as I am the type to worry about my figure.

"I know. That is why I am teaching you how to meal prep." He lifts a glass Manson jar from the dish washer. "This is how I survive in Boston."

With chicken salads in jars? I find that hard to believe. 

ALEKSANDER

"You nearly burnt down my kitchen." I drop the oven pan into the sink and push the window to dispense the smoke that was filling up the room.

I left Jessica for 15 minutes to take a shower but just as I was dressing, I got interrupted by the smoke alarm beeping.

"I told you I couldn't cook," she is holding her wrist.

"You didn't cook, I did. All you had to do was watch the chicken Jessica." I push my wet hair back and tie the knot around my pants.

I was already done with the dressing when the alarm went off but how did she manage to mess this up?

"I'm sorry," her voice cracking is the only reason I am noticing the tears pricking her eyes. "I don't even know what happened."

Jessica is very strong willed. Even as she trembled and her lips quivered last night, she didn't cry and I was glad because I don't think I could ever take seeing her tears.

I can't even stand to look at her.

"Jessica," I reach for her but don't dare touch. "I have more than enough chicken. I'll be glad to grill some more and—"

"No." More tears rush but luckily none drop as she says, "it's my hand." She releases it from her side, "I hurt my hand."

She opens her palm to reveal scorching red burned skin and a few boils that are already forming on her palm.