Page 73 of Cakes for the Grump

“You follow instructions well. So if I have to leave?—”

“Why would you go?”

“If I can’t afford to live inthis city?—”

“You live here.”

“I’m nowhere. No key that’s mine.”

“Do you want a special key? I can get you a special key.”

“But for how long?”

“As long as you want.”

It’s as if time has stopped and languishes around that sentence. I think about it multiple times before deciding he can’t mean that. I’m about to argue when he gets bossy again. “Stop worrying. Sleep.”

“Okay,” I mutter, turning my face into the pillow. “But…I’m sorry. For not working—your smoothies. You could fire me again?—”

He reappears. Just like that. Back in my field of vision. How? He’s not breathing regularly. “Never again,” he grits out. “It won’t happen. Look at me and understand this, Rita. It won’t happen again. Even if you say we aren’t anything again, I won’t speak to you like that.”

“Okay. I’m sorry about your childhood.”

His mouth flattens. “Don’t. That’s not on you.”

“I know. You—don’t let yourself be sad about it.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been taught it’s an inefficient emotion.”

“I’ll do it.” Because that makes total sense to my foggy brain. “Not in a pity way,obviously. But as a substitutestand-in for when you want to be sad. I’ll do it. For you.”

My eyelids want to droop, but I drag my gaze up to his. Our eyes lock, and for the length of a few skipped heartbeats, I can see I’ve rendered him wide-eyed and speechless.

Then he turns, and all I can see is the breadth of his shoulders. The wide lines articulate perfectly, and that perfection continues all the way down…

I jolt aggressively to count the ridges in the ceiling because I can’t be caught fawning over his bum! As what must be another symptom of my fever, a blush spreads across my face.

“Good night, Rita. Shut your eyes.”

This time it’s a rather forceful command, so I do. And for the most part, I sink into uninterrupted rest minus two incidents where my vitals are checked by a hovering doctor or I’m given this broth to drink.

Luke is there. He doesn’t come close enough for us to have a conversation, but I can see him in the background leaning against the doorway, his hands tucked into his pants, supervising.

The next timeI wake up, I’m invigorated and immediately notice the empty protein bar wrappers are gone. Someone cleaned them up and also parked a serving cart beside the bed.

Steadier now, I go over to examine it. Silver metal legs connect two glass-tier bases. It’s a piece belonging to a spa or a first-class train compartment where mobile food services go down the aisle. But this cart’s contents have not been customized for sophistication. There are no fancy bottles and glassware of all sizes.

The first tier has soup, bananas, avocados, crackers, and yogurt. The second tier is even more boisterous. It is loaded with drinks: coconut water, electrolyte sports beverages in all colors of the rainbow, bottled water, and a pile of green tea bagssanshot water or a hot water generating device.

The devil Luke has done this for me.

I know since it’s a mishmash, and the yogurt has been exposed to the Danger Zone—an environment of two or more hours where bacteria can multiply at room temperature—and because also on the cart is a matte black credit card with his name on it. For me to use. If the items there are not to my liking.

I don’t know what to think about that.

When I go into the bathroom, a look in the mirror reveals someone smiling, soft-eyed, and absently distracted.

It must be all the rest, I decide. It’s done wonders.