Chapter Fourteen
When Sophie woke, she spent a few moments wondering what possible reason there might be, from an evolutionary standpoint, for people to have bad breath. She was positive hers was wretched. Her tongue felt somehow both gummy and thick, like it had been tarred, feathered and topped with a thick duvet cover. Everything ached, she couldn’t breathe through her nose, and even though she hadn’t opened her eyes yet, she was considering going back to sleep.
She could also hear someone snoring. Not a loud chainsaw of a noise, nor a soft wuffle like her childhood dog used to make, but somewhere in between. For a brief, disorienting moment, she thought it might be Andrew. Who else would be sleeping by her?
Then she remembered the affair, subsequent divorce, and her current near overwhelming desire to staple his bollocks to his front porch. So no, it wouldn’t be Andrew.
Sophie cracked open her eyes. Mike lay curled on the bed next to her on top of the covers, fully clothed. He was facing her, his head on the pillow. His hair was tousled, his lashes lying in a dark crescent against his skin. She noted with some amusement that even in his sleep, he seemed concerned, a small divot appearing between his brows, and his stubble had gone far past the five o’clock mark, leaning heavily towards the wee hours of the morning.
He looked tired but handsome and Sophie wondered why on earth he was in her bed.
After a few seconds of her staring at him, Mike seemed to sense her attention and blinked open his eyes. He stared back at her for a moment, his expression muzzy, before his gaze cleared.
‘How are you feeling?’ The question came out gravelly, sleep-sanded and rough.
And she liked it. She liked hearing him like this and knowing that not everyone got to hear the way he sounded first thing in the morning. Then she remembered he’d asked her a question. ‘Like death warmed up, left out, warmed up again, frozen, and then tossed in the bin.’
One corner of his lip curled up. ‘A little better then.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because I got a full sentence that time instead of a monosyllable.’ He reached out and touched her forehead, concern pinching his features. ‘Not entirely cool, but you’re not as warm as you were. Sit up and I’ll take your temperature.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’re due another dose of medicine, too.’
She levered herself up, surprised at how weak and shaky her arms felt. Mike rolled off the bed, bringing her two pills and the thermometer, which he placed in her mouth. When it beeped, he traded it for the pills and water.
He read the digital screen, a slight frown on his face. ‘Still a little over a hundred.’ He eyed her, assessing. ‘Do you feel up to some soup? Or tea? I got you some more camomile. I can put some honey and lemon in it, which will make your throat feel better.’
‘You missed your calling,’ Sophie said, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. ‘You should have been a nurse.’
‘I would make a terrible nurse. People would probably die.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second. You’re too efficient.’
Mike set the thermometer on the bedside table. ‘Perhaps, but I also lack patience with most humans, and I find that to be something nurses need a great deal of. What’s it to be first – tea or soup?’
‘Tea, please.’ Sophie watched Mike walk to the door, because even in wrinkled suit trousers, he still had an incredible arse. Quite possibly the world’s greatest.
He turned at the threshold and caught her watching him. A slow grin unfurled on his face. ‘Lemon and honey acceptable?’
Sophie refused to feel embarrassed about being caught out, so she just nodded and closed her eyes to rest until he came back.
Mike brought her tea, and as soon as she’d drunk some of that down, he brought her a bowl of soup.
She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating the chicken soup he’d brought her, she felt suddenly ravenous. She polished it off quickly, listening as Mike moved around the kitchen with a quiet symphony of cabinet doors and cutlery. When he returned, she was holding the empty bowl in her hands, not quite sure what to do with it.
For some reason, Mike seemed amused by this. ‘Would you like more?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘Not yet. I was just thinking about the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had breakfast – or I guess dinner? – in bed.’
Mike took her bowl from her. ‘To be honest, I’ve never much cared for it. I always seem to get crumbs in the sheets or spill something, or I get so nervous about doing those things that there’s no joy in it.’
‘I hate it when I do that – kill my own joy.’ Sophie pulled the blankets up higher, though she stayed sitting up. ‘Well, it was very good soup, and I don’t think I spilled any. Did you get it at the shop?’
Mike shook his head. ‘I made it.’
Sophie blinked at him. ‘You made it?’
Her question seemed to amuse him, earning her a faint smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly drawing out the word. He waved a hand at her. ‘Why the face? Because that’s a very sceptical face.’
‘I guess I’m just surprised.’
‘That I made soup, or that I made you soup?’ Mike asked.
Sophie thought about it. ‘Both, I suppose. Does it matter?’
‘The first could be a little offensive, like you’re assuming that I don’t know how to cook, but the second . . .’ He shook his head again. ‘I should keep my mouth shut.’
She’d forgotten that he’d said he could cook – though he’d said he was mediocre, and that soup hadn’t tasted mediocre. ‘Please don’t. It will bother me all day, wondering what you were going to say.’
He sighed. ‘The second either indicates that you don’t think I would be willing to put in the effort to make you a bowl of soup, which is not so much insulting as it is hurtful, or it indicates that you’re simply not used to anyone taking care of you at all.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m afraid that last one makes me a little angry.’
She frowned up at him. ‘Why would that make you angry?’
Mike huffed out another breath, strode over and dropped a kiss onto the top of her hair. ‘Because you deserve a little effort, Sophie Swann.’ And with that, he left the room to deal with the empty bowl, his shoulders tense, his movements clipped.
And Sophie . . . well, she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his behaviour. Despite that uncertainty, however, she felt his words settle into her mind, sinking deep into the fathoms, where they became a little light in the darkness.
When she woke again, she felt a thousand times better. She was also sprawled across Mike, her head on his shirt, which was looking decidedly the worse for wear at this point. The heat of him radiated through the thin material, warming her. His heart beat a steady thump against her ear. She could also hear rain coming down outside the window of her flat, and she lay there for a long time, soaking in the atmosphere and thinking about how cosy she felt. She felt cosseted, warm – taken care of.
It felt wonderful. It felt essential .
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this. Edie often did little things for her – picking up her favourite treat from the market or getting flowers for her room. That kind of care had felt essential in a different way. Edie was a bedrock of her life, a friend that she hoped she deserved. Sophie hadn’t been ill since she’d moved in with Edie, though her friend had been there for her completely with emotional support, a never-ending supply of tissues and the number for a good lawyer. All of which had been sadly necessary.
But she’d never had the opportunity to take care of Sophie when she was ill. Andrew had, of course, but he’d never done much beyond fetching medicine from the chemist. He’d certainly never cooked for her. So when she tried to cast her mind back over the years to figure out when she’d last been cared for like this, she came up blank.
Which was a depressing thought. What Mike had done shouldn’t feel extraordinary. She certainly wouldn’t think twice before she cooked for someone who was ill or fetched them things. Except no one had done those things for her. Which was kind of sad, if she was honest. Mike was right. She deserved a little effort.
The one warming thought that came from all of his ruminating was the fact that she’d seen many instances of Tom taking care of Marisa and vice versa. That’s how it should be. If you have a partner, they should be there when you stumble. You should be there when they stumble, too.
Sophie Swann had considered herself a partner in her marriage, but it suddenly became clear as freshly cleaned glass that she’d never had one herself. She’d had a husband, sure, but not a partner .
Oh, she’d figured out long ago that Andrew was an absolute arsehole. But in the messy grief of the dissolution of her marriage, she’d never really come to terms with the fact that she’d been overwhelmingly and disastrously let down by someone who should have been there for her.
Following quickly on the heels of that was this revolutionary and exciting realization that she hadn’t done a single thing to deserve any of it.
She had done nothing wrong except try hard with someone who hadn’t deserved her effort.
It was a bit of a kick in the gut, if she was honest.
Sophie wasn’t sure how long she lay there, dazed with this new thought before she felt the muscles under her shift as Mike moved, his fingers coming up and brushing back her hair.
‘I can practically hear you thinking right now.’ The sleepy gravel voice was back, much to her delight.
Sophie made a noncommittal noise. His fingers kept sifting through her hair, which made her close her eyes as she enjoyed the simple pleasure of the touch.
‘Do you need to talk about it?’
‘Maybe. Not yet. Still processing.’
Mike hummed thoughtfully and she could feel the vibration of it. ‘Do we still feel like death warmed up?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We are feeling quite disgusting, though, and hoping our hair isn’t greasy at this particular moment.’
Mike laughed. ‘Your hair’s fine, but I imagine a shower would feel heavenly for you at this point. Feel up to one?’
Was that an offer? She didn’t think so – surely he couldn’t find her attractive right now. She raised herself up, a dubious expression on her face. Which set him off on another spate of laughter, though this one was mostly silent, his chest shaking under her hand.
‘The look on your face. I didn’t mean anything salacious by it. You go and get washed. I’ll check my email and catch up a little bit.’
She blinked at him. ‘Were you supposed to be at work?’
Mike sobered, several emotions imprinting so softly and so quickly across his face that she wasn’t sure she caught them, but it gave her the impression that he felt uncomfortable about his answer.
‘They don’t need me there twenty-four hours a day,’ Mike said finally. ‘And I’m ahead of schedule, which is a miracle in itself.’
‘You don’t need to justify your choices to me,’ she said, pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled a little and Mike reached out quickly to steady her. ‘It was just a question.’
After assessing her steadiness, he stepped back, dropping his hands. ‘Go and shower and walk once again among the living. I’ll get my laptop.’
The shower felt like magic. Sophie washed her hair and revelled in the remnants of fever sweat and sickness sliding away from her and circling down the drain. By the time she stepped out, she didn’t feel one hundred per cent again, but she at least felt mostly human. She dried off, then pulled on fresh pyjamas, leaving the dirty ones on the floor. It felt weird to do that – she was a tidy person – but also wonderful to acknowledge the fact that it was her choice to do so, and no one could complain about it.
It was with renewed spirits that she stepped into her current living room, brushing out her damp hair. Mike was frowning at his laptop, focused and far away in his abstraction. Sophie stole this moment to stare at him openly, taking in the breath-stealing delicious state that was Michael Tremblay, dishevelled. He’d been snatching sleep while he took care of her and she could see it in the faint bruising under his eyes. His hair stuck up at the back, the front ruffled by his fingers, which were now rubbing absently at his stubble.
This moment here, seeing him like this, was enough to make her want him, even half sick and exhausted. She was beginning to think that even on her deathbed, she’d want him enough to use her dying breath to ask him to take off his shirt.
If it had only been about physical attraction, she could have resisted him easily. Or at least taken what she wanted without compunction. But it wasn’t only that. Sophie may have had her trust blown to smithereens, and she might not have any faith whatsoever in her own judgement right now, but despite that, she was growing more certain by the day that Mike was a decent man. A good man. She just wasn’t sure if he was her man, or if she even wanted that right now.
She made an irritated noise – she was so tired of being a mess.
The sound caused Mike to look up, smiling automatically at the sight of her. Like he couldn’t help it.
‘Do you feel like a brand-new woman?’
Sophie stopped rubbing at her head with her towel. ‘Pardon?’
Mike grimaced. ‘Something my grandma used to say after we had a shower. She’d ask if we felt like a brand-new person.’ He shook his head. ‘Ignore my ramblings.’
‘I don’t think I will.’ Sophie went back to drying her hair. ‘Because I do. I feel like a brand-new woman.’ And it wasn’t just because she’d had a truly good shower. It was, well, everything. But before she could say another word, there was a knock at her door.
She frowned, but Mike was already standing, waving her away.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, snapping his laptop closed. ‘You finish what you’re doing.’ He strode to the door before she could argue, not that she wanted to, and she took another opportunity to watch the world’s greatest backside moving away from her.