Page 57 of Cakes for the Grump

“Did I? I must not have heard it beyond your adoration of my largeness.”

My mouth drops open. “Don’t try to make me laugh. I’m mad, and you are delusional.”

“No, I am big.”

“Argh. That’s—not—” I groan. The size of Luke Abbot’s ego is gargantuan and therefore unassailable without concentrated effort, which I currently lack the energy for, which is why I settle for a scathing summary: “I have not changed my mind. You are the very worst.”

“I’m the worst? Do people know this side of you? You’ve insulted an outrageously good-looking man who is always well-presented.”

His reaction is so excessive that I forget myself and laugh. The movement shakes my shoulders and dislodges most of the jacket from my face.

“You’re flushed,” says Luke, suddenly inclining forward. “I noticed some of it earlier, but I assumed it was a sign of your embarrassment, especially since I’ve caught you wearing what you are wearing.”

I examine my thick, full-sleeved, and full-legged cotton pajamas, and the oversized beige hooded sherpa jacket now coiled around my shoulders. “Hey, it’s notthatbad.”

“Initially, I thought you were a pile of rags. Then you let out a snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a mostly delicate noise.”

“I don’t trust you for shit.”

“Good. You shouldn’t. Now, explain to me why you’ve dressed like this and why your face looks like this.”

Does he actually not realize I am sick? Does Luke think I commonly have a lay in past normal waking hours, and that I remain bundled up in bed for no reason? Perhaps he believes his firing has affected me so deeply that I have spiraled into a deep depression.

So if I tell him about being sick…

The truth will send him fleeing. Maybe if I cough in his face, he’ll scram, terrified of becoming sick again himself. Actually, I hate how well he looks right now, obviously having recovered in record time. Luke Abbot is scarily efficient, even when it comes to fighting off the flu.

He inches even closer. “It was hard to tell when you had your neck and half of your face covered with that ratty jacket, but now it’s very obvious you don’t look well.”

Before I can defend how Sherpa is supposed to have its unique texture, he puts a hand on my head.

I remember the night in the bar before we got caught in the rain. Everyone who saw him dance with Sophie can bear witness to the skill of his hands and how deftly they lead, choreograph, and maneuver another body. With utmost unfairness, he’s got wide palms and long fingers worthy of a musician. As annoyed as I was that night watching him show off his masculine wiles, I had reassured myself that a man as spoiled and sheltered as Luke must have butter hands. Too soft, too pliant, too moisturized.

Unfortunately, having his hand against my forehead now, covering that area in complete warmth, it bothers me greatly to learn that I was wrong. There are numerous calluses.

Luke tests my forehead in a few spots, and mutters a rather terse,“Fuck.”

“It’s much better than it was last night.”

“Why haven’t you called someone?” he asks, his voice losing all casualness.

“I’m not going to worry my friends and family.”

“Look at your living conditions. Even if you were the picture of complete health, you should be worrying people.”

“Excuseme? You are the one who got me sick, you heathen. This is all your fault!”

I wait for his return jibe, but it doesn’t come.

“Oh, stop looking so stressed,” I say. “I’m not about to die in front of you. Don’t worry, I know how much you hate complications, so I’ve got no plans to croak in your presence.”

“That’s not. I’m not—” He pauses, and draws in a deliberate breath.

“Then what are you worried about? I’ve already seen the doctor about this. He said all I need to do is take medicine—which I have—and drink loads of fluids. If you want proof, look at my chair. You’ll see the big water glass I’m drinking from.”