Chapter 16 #2
I glance around the living room, sympathy rising in my chest. It would kind of suck to be sick by yourself, shivering on the couch in the silence of your house.
Am I the only person who came to check on him? I really came to do my cleaning job, but I was hoping to find out where he’d been, too.
When my eyes fall on the cracked window, I hurry over and open it all the way. Then I move to the dining room and do the same, followed by the kitchen. The study doors are closed, so I leave them alone.
From the couch, I hear a tired voice. “What are you doing?” Roman says.
“Go back to sleep,” I tell him.
Another mumble, something I can’t interpret but which sounds like a protest.
“Fine,” I say with a laugh. “Do whatever you want, then.” A moment later, Roman hoists himself off the couch, a robe of blankets trailing behind him as he trudges past me.
He mutters something about going to bed, and I nod, waving him toward the stairs.
I turn my attention back to the rest of the house as he tromps out of sight. This place needs to be aired out completely. I leave all the blinds open, because sunshine will only help, and then I return to the living room, staring at the couch. I contemplate for only a second.
It’s time to get to work.
When Roman returns downstairs an hour later, he looks significantly more human. His hair is clearly wet from the shower, and although he still appears weak, he’s definitely more lively. Based on the way he stares at me, he didn’t expect me to be here.
I didn’t expect it, either. What started as a brief moment of help turned into disinfecting, window-opening, and food preparation.
Who am I right now? I do this kind of thing for my sisters, but not for my former boss.
When Roman drifts into the kitchen, gaping, I speak.
“Eat this before it gets cold,” I tell him, pushing a steaming bowl of ramen to the edge of the counter.
And for a moment, he’s speechless. “Did you cook for me?” he finally says, his eyes still wide as they dart back and forth between me and the food.
“Boiling ramen is hardly cooking,” I say, trying to sound casual, because this isn’t a big deal. I don’t want him to read into it. “Now eat, please.”
He picks up the bowl and sets it gently on the table, but then he looks back at me. “Where is my couch?”
I glance over his shoulder into the living room. “It’s right there.”
“Only half of it is right there,” he counters.
Well. If he wants to get technical. “The cushions have been disinfected and are drying in the sun,” I tell him. “Eat your food.”
“Do I have a place to dry cushions in the sun?”
“You have a slab of concrete outside the back door. Eat or I’m going to take that ramen and eat it myself. I’m hungry.”
“Help yourself to anything,” Roman says. Seating himself at the table, he slouches low in the wooden chair.
“I might,” I say. I watch with satisfaction as he begins his bowl of noodles, slowly at first and then with more enthusiasm. He’s probably starving.
It takes him all of two minutes to finish, and he drinks the broth, too. After that he leans back in his chair and sighs, a long, content sound. Then he looks at me.
“You really should head home,” he says tiredly. “I appreciate all this. But you’re going to get sick if you stay too long.”
He’s right. I round the kitchen counter. “I just wanted to make sure you got something to eat.”
He gives me a slow nod in return, something curious in his expression. “Part of your fifty-dollars-an-hour services? Or is it pity for the man child who can barely keep himself fed?”
“Neither,” I say lightly, because despite his casual voice, Roman’s question is rooted deeper, laced with a faint bitterness. “This is purely self-serving. I was worried you had perfect hair all the time, and now I get to report to my sisters that you don’t. You’re human, just like the rest of us.”
The shadow over his features eases, and although he doesn’t smile, something bright flashes in his eyes. “There’s nothing that can be done about my immaculate face, unfortunately. I’m handsome always.”
“I think that’s probably true,” I say.
“Glad you’re finally admitting it. You were in denial there for a while.”
“Keep drinking water,” I say firmly, because whether I find him attractive is not up for discussion. “You need to stay hydrated.”
I receive another nod, the slow dip of his chin as his gaze stays locked with mine.
“I’ll see you on Friday, then,” I say when he remains simply watchful. “Feel better soon.”
It’s only when I’ve reached the living room that he calls his thanks—hoarse but clearly genuine, and a smile blooms over my lips.
The next day when I get home from work, a gift bag is sitting on my front porch; folded inside is the cardigan I wore to Roman’s, the one I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten. I lift it to my nose and inhale; the fresh scent of detergent and dryer sheets finds me.
He washed it. Another smile tries to grow, just like the one that appeared when he thanked me yesterday.
Instead of going inside to change out of my work clothes, I remain on the front porch, basking in the sun, and I let that smile have free rein.
It’s a nonsensical expression, but I can’t stop it.
It really is a beautiful day outside.