Disclaimer: Stephanie Plum and the characters in this fanfic are the sole property of Janet Evanovich. They are being used without her expressed permission, but for the purpose of entertainment. NO money is being made off of this fanfic. Please do not sue—I am a poor librarian who is still living with her parents.

A/N: This takes place between the ending of "Hot Six" and the beginning of "Seven Up".

A few days after my grandma had moved out of my apartment, I woke up with a terrible headache and a sore throat. Not wanting people to think I was a big baby, I bought some cough drops and cold medicine and tried to suck it up.

The following day, the terrible headache had been replaced by a slightly less terrible headache, a stomachache, and a 103 degree fever.

The sore throat hadn't gotten better or worse.

I decided I'd had enough with sucking it up and would call in sick to Vinny's office until my body decided it wanted to work.

In the meantime, I was going to try to get some much needed sleep, something I'd been sorely lacking when Grandma Mazur had been staying at my apartment.

About an hour after I made the call to Connie, I was woken out of a restful sleep by a knock on my door.

I ignored the knock and pulled a pillow over my head. I'd use the pillow as a weapon if someone was stupid enough to break into my apartment when I was feeling this sick.

Whoever was knocking on the door stopped. Seconds later, my phone rang. I groaned, grabbed my portable phone, and prepared to yell at the person who was stupid enough to call.

"'Lo."

"Steph, it's Joe. I'm at your door."

I debated whether or not I should yell at Joe Morelli on the phone, or let him in so I could yell at him face to face.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" I mumbled.

"I took the morning off." Pause. "Lula called and said you weren't feeling great."

"That was yesterday," I croaked. "Today, I'm all out sick. My temperature's 103."

Morelli let out a low whistle. "Okay, don't move. I'll let myself in."

Before I could protest, he'd hung up the phone. I stared open mouthed at it for a few seconds as I registered the information. I shut off the phone and paused for about two seconds before pulling the covers back over my head.

Morelli was in my room a minute later. He was dressed in his usual cop clothes, and even in my feverish state, I couldn't deny that he looked hot. As usual.

I, on the other hand, had a rat's nest for hair, and I was pretty sure that my breath smelled pretty bad since I hadn't bothered to brush my teeth that morning. Certain things don't count when you're sick.

I sort of stared at Morelli as he crossed over to my bed and put a hand on my forehead. His hand was freezing cold, which meant that my head must be really hot. I moved my head out of his reach.

"Let me sleep," I complained. Then, because I had to know, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you back with me, Cupcake. We're sort of engaged now, so I don't think either of our families would mind if you stayed at my house while you recovered."

"Go away. Can't you just let me stay in my nice, warm bed?" I complained. Okay, whined.

Morelli pretty much ignored me as he began rummaging through my stuff, taking items of clothing out of the drawers and putting them into a duffle bag. Once he was satisfied that he had everything that I needed for the next few years, he turned to me. I was sitting up in bed, watching the scene unfold with something resembling horror. Who was this man?

Morelli hoisted me out of the bed. "Cupcake, this is much better. I can take care of you this way. I won't be worried that I should have called the ER because you're on your deathbed."

I fumbled around in his arms for the blankets, which somehow slipped through my grasp.

"First of all, I'm sick, not dying. I don't need you to take care of me. Second of all, I'm freezing and I'm tired. I want to go back to bed!"

Morelli removed the comforter from my bed and tucked it around me. While doing so, he managed to immobilize my arms, which he somehow managed to tuck into the blanket. I could kick my legs, kind of, but the upper half of my body had lost its capacity for movement.

It also felt warm under the blanket, and Morelli was holding me very securely and comfortably in his arms, but I wasn't going to think about that.

I pretty much pouted and complained all the way to his car, which did nothing except make my throat hurt worse.

"You see what you did?" I rasped as he sat me in the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt over the blanket.

"Then you don't want to make it worse," Morelli cautioned, putting an arm on my shoulder. "Look, Steph, we'll be at my house in a few minutes, and once I make sure you're safe and sound, you can sleep as long as you want."

I still didn't fully understand why I couldn't sleep in my apartment, in my bed. Okay, so maybe it made sense for me to be in Morelli's vicinity if my cold got worse. But was that any excuse for kidnapping me—literally taking me from my bed—when I was trying to recover?

He probably just wanted easier access to sex when I started to feel better.

Well, he could forget that. Not only did I feel like I wanted to die, I was so ticked off that I was willing to abstain from him for the rest of my life.

Or at least for a few months.