One dull green eye opened, squinting at me in a haze. "You gave me the flu?" he asked hoarsely.

"How the hell did I give you the flu?"

He let out a short, dry chuckle. "Josh's party," he reminded me. I snorted because he remembered drinking from my cranberry vodka, and that I had joked around about giving him the flu. One of his butt buddies probably gave it to him, I decided. I rolled my eyes at him and started pulling the covers he was covered in away from his body. The heavy, white comforter was knotted around him in a twist, so I tugged it away as well, only to have him groan. "Be gentle. My body hurts."

"You're too hot to be wrapped up," I told him. I wrestled the comforter away, leaving him in only a white sheet that was tucked closely around him. I tugged it off, and then stood there like a frozen idiot.

I'd seen plenty of nice bodies; all three of my past boyfriends had all been athletic and fit. My movie collection consisted of every film that starred hot, half-dressed actors. I saw 300 about five times in theaters with Nicole and another twenty times on DVD. Josh and I watched Thor six times and drooled during each one. You could consider me a seasoned gawker.

Nothing could have prepared me for that moment.

Tristan was lying across his bed in just his boxer briefs. Little, black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide big, muscular thighs. His chest was perfect, pillowy, and hard with just a sprinkle of dark chest hair across, but his abs were the Holy Grail of all abs. They formed the kind of eight-pack you could only see on Abercrombie ads. The v-cut of muscle on his hips disappeared beneath the band of his underwear, and then my eyes instinctively froze on the soft bulge the black cotton was covering. Holy shit. Josh's words flitted through my brain. You're an anaconda because we all know that's what you have in your pants.

"Like what you see?" Tristan teased softly.

I snapped my eyes up to his smirking face and scowled. Why didn't I expect him to be just as observant as he always? "Shut up and get up."

He chuckled wearily and braced his hands on either side of his perfect body to push himself up; my eyes immediately went back to his abs and the rippling muscles that contracted as he sat up. I thought I had more fat around my hips than he did on his entire body. With a few grunts, he was up with his legs swung over the side of the bed. "You don't think I need to go to the doctor?"

"Only if you want to. " I told him, but really, I was staring at the lines of sinewy muscles on his biceps and triceps like a person on the verge of dehydration seeing water for the first time.

Tristan ran a hand through his mess of auburn hair and sighed. "I feel like shit, Kat."

"You feel like shit, but I bet you haven't taken anything, right?" I knew he hadn't. When my dad would get sick he refused to take medicine. He didn't even like to take Tylenol, and every other man I'd ever encountered had been the same way.

"No," he said with a tired grimace.

"Get up then, your fever is too high, and we need to get it down. You need to take a cold shower at least."

Tristan got up and slowly made his way over to the opened door across from his bed. The bathroom was large, brightly lit, and modern in comparison to the older style of the house. A walk-in shower with clear glass doors and double vanity sink dominated the room. I pretended to look around the bathroom but stole glances at Tristan's reflection in the large mirror every chance I got. Opening up the doors, he messed with the taps in the shower. "How cold?"

"Cold."

He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes and grunted. "I'm so weak," he moaned. "I tried calling Calum, but he won't answer, and my parents are in New York this week. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked you to come."