Chapter 16 #2
“Oh, they hide well. Especially with a stranger around here.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m ninety percent sure she’s messing with me, but fuck, ten percent can make a significant difference in negotiations, so I’m still wary. “Just get into bed before you faint again.”
She rolls her eyes for the hundredth time. “I need to shower and get changed. And these sheets are gross.”
Fuck.
“I can help you shower,” I suggest, because she’s right, I’m not qualified to help her in any reasonable way. And if I’m honest, I’m staying for my own peace of mind as much as for her.
“Why don’t I shower while you change the sheets, since you’re insisting on helping me?” She opens her tiny closet and takes out some clothes.
My concierge service must be able to get someone here quickly. “Sure, I’ll call my—”
“You can’t change the sheets?” She snorts and walks past me.
I don’t miss the way she is supporting herself with her hand, using the wall and furniture as a cane. And the stubborn woman said she could cope by herself.
“Of course I can,” I respond quickly. Just because I’ve never done something, it doesn’t mean I can’t do it. How hard can it be? I glance at her queen-size bed. “Where are the clean sheets?”
Fuck, I’ll make an idiot of myself just to see the entertainment on her face. She points to the dresser and leaves for the bathroom.
Taking the sheets off is a breeze.
Wrapping the obstinate sheet’s corners around the mattress is a fucking nightmare. What sadist invented these things?
They stretch, they snap back, and they absolutely refuse to stay put. This corner holds; that corner pops. It’s like playing whack-a-mole with what definitely isn’t Egyptian cotton.
I grunt as I try again, wedging the corner down and using half my body weight to hold it in place while I snake around to the other side.
This mattress has no give. Why is her bed so heavy? What’s it made of? Concrete?
I finally trap one corner, then sprint around to the next, like a man trying to tame a wild animal. Which, I now realize, is exactly what this is. A white, elastic-mouthed, passive-aggressive beast.
By corner three, I’ve broken into a sweat. Not in the sexy, glistening-from-a-workout way. In the I’m-a-fucking-loser-with-no-practical-skills way.
“One more corner pops loose, and I’m setting you on fire. I’ve survived boardrooms with actual sociopaths. You’re just cotton,” I mutter.
With a final push, I jam the last corner down and straighten—hands on my hips, glaring at the now-pristine bed like it insulted my ancestors.
And then I hear it.
A strangled chuckle, and a sniffle.
I turn slowly toward the doorway. Cora leans there in a T-shirt and flimsy pajama shorts, damp curls piled on her head. She’s not wearing a bra, and her legs are calling to me in a way that is utterly inappropriate given the circumstances.
I peel my eyes off her body and meet her eyes. Amusement practically drips off her flushed, slightly feverish face.
“I’ve never seen someone threaten inanimate objects with such conviction.” She grins. “You okay there, soldier?”
I fix my expression into one of dignified suffering. “That sheet was objectively hostile. I was defending myself.”
She laughs, then winces and coughs. “Well, thank you for making my bed.”
“Anything to earn your undying gratitude.”
We grin at each other for a few beats, before she coughs again and walks in slowly, eyeing the bed. “It’s not terrible.”
“Please. It’s a work of art.”
Cora sits on the bed, patting one corner. “You tucked this one in like you were afraid it might explode.”
“Because it tried to. Twice.” I shrug and get the pillows fluffed for her to lie down.
She smiles, tired but soft. “Thank you.”
I shrug, suddenly not sure what to do with my hands. “Figured if I can run a billion-dollar company, I can probably tackle a fitted sheet.”
“Barely.” She chuckles, lying down.
I smirk. “Still counts.” I cover her.
Propped up against a pillow, like the queen of sass and sniffles, she gives me another weak smile.
“I’m going to order the soup. Do you want some tea?” I channel all the caregiving instincts I’ve never used.
Cora raises an eyebrow. “You know where tea comes from, Stone?”
“Boiling water. Leaves. Magic.” I wave my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen people do it.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Right cabinet. Above the sink. Kettle is electric. Try not to burn down my kitchen.”
I scoff and head in, rolling up my sleeves like I’m about to perform surgery.
First problem: there are six different boxes of tea. Some are labeled things like “Sleepy Soul” and “Goddess Calm,” and one just says “Witch’s Brew.” That one feels like a trap.
I go with mint. Safe. Mint doesn’t emotionally challenge you. I fill the kettle, press the button, and wait. The button clicks off five seconds later. Nothing happens.
I stare at it. Tap it again. Nothing.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter. “You had one job.”
I try a different socket. It hisses. Progress. I drop the bag into a mug and pour like I’ve just invented the concept. Steam curls up triumphantly.
I open the fridge. Oat milk? Okay, I guess. Does milk go into mint tea? It wouldn’t hurt, would it?
I spot a small, bear-shaped bottle. Honey has healing properties. I squeeze. Nothing. I squeeze harder. The bottle farts out a pathetic wheeze and dribbles honey down the side.
By the time I bring the mug out, it looks like I’ve been in a low-stakes bar fight. I hand it to her.
She blinks down at the sticky mug, then up at me. “Is that honey on your shirt?”
“It resisted.”
She takes a careful sip. Pauses. Blinks again. “You made mint. With oat milk.”
“I made a choice.” I plant myself at the edge of her bed. “And I stand by it.”
“You’re lucky I don’t have the strength to sass you properly.”
“You say that, but I can still feel the judgment radiating off your pores.”
She hums, eyes closed now, but there’s a smile ghosting across her lips. And for some reason, I feel like I just won something important.
“Jesus, creepy much?” I jerk when I open my eyes and find Cora sitting on the coffee table watching me.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
I sit up and put the back of my hand on her forehead. She doesn’t seem to have a fever. I’ve been watching over her for two days, and she was significantly better yesterday. But her question… is she hallucinating?
She swats my hand away. “I mean, why did you come to see me in the first place?”
“You seem better.” She has more color in her cheeks, and her eyes don’t have that glassy, sick veil.
“It must be the oat milk mint tea.” She deadpans. “You should have that patented.”
“I’m glad you feel better.” The relief is akin to an adrenaline shot. It’s not the boisterous boost I get from a workout. It seeps in quietly, injecting comfort into my veins.
“So why did you come?” It’s like her mind dealt with the sickness and rewound, and insists on filling in the blanks.
“I heard about your financial trouble.”
Perhaps not the best way to start, but in my defense, I spent two nights fighting for this couch with Pitt or Clooney, or one of the ten cats.
And then I tossed and turned, because this sunken mattress is a death trap.
She grunts and bows her head. “Of course, you did.”
Okay, definitely not the best way to start this conversation.
“Let me guess,” she drawls, her eyes skating over me like I were something stuck to her shoe. “You’ll bail me out if I sleep with you?” Her tone is pure disdain wrapped in silk.
I smirk. “That wasn’t my original proposition, but I’m not against it.”
“Maybe I can sell the fucking island to save the business.” She stands up and sways.
I’m on my feet immediately, supporting her elbow. The scent of her shampoo, and something more primal hits me, and I wrap my hand around her waist. No longer to steady her, which we both know, I’m sure.
Our eyes lock, electricity zapping between us. I can feel her nipples through our shirts. Her curves mold into me in my embrace. I can twist us around, and she’d be under me. I can dip my head and get another hit of her taste. I can bend her over the coffee table and—
“I’m fine; I just stood up too quickly.” She puts her hands on my chest like she’s going to push me away. She doesn’t. She steps back, her hands lingering on my pecs.
“You’re not fine.” I check my watch. “The breakfast is here in fifteen minutes.” I scoop her up.
“What are you doing?” She swats at me halfheartedly.
“You need to rest.” I carry her over to her bedroom and lay her gently down before I cover her.
“I’m done resting. And what do you mean breakfast is here in fifteen minutes?”
“What part of that sentence is challenging your comprehension ability?”
“Just go home, Xander,” she grumbles, glaring.
Shit, I can verbally spar with her for days and not tire of it. But I had an agenda when I came here, and since she seems better…
“I came to propose marriage.”