55. ICY TOUCH

ISLA'S POV. That night, I stirred beneath the soft weight of my comforter, my skin clammy and my head pounding with a dull ache. A groan escaped my lips as I blinked against the dark, lifting a hand to press the heel of my palm to my aching temple. My throat was dry and and even chill danced across my skin despite the warmth of my room. "Ugh," I muttered hoarsely, my voice scratchy. "Why now?" I kicked the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing when the cool air hit my bare thighs. My feet instinctively found my slippers, and I rose slowly, wobbling for a moment before steadying myself. The idea of ice cream, specifically the rich vanilla-bourbon one I’d begged Betty to get on our way home, suddenly felt like salvation by this time. Nothing cured a cold better than sugar and denial. Shuffling through the hallway, I kept my steps quiet. When I reached the kitchen, I hugged my arms tightly to myself as I opened the freezer and retrieved the pint I’d been dreaming