Page 88 of Cakes for the Grump

The ice pack moves to a spot on his shoulder. “It feels too early to joke about this.”

“Who says I’m joking?” His voice is gruff. “When you call me, I will come.”

My heart clenches at his Big Promise. The kind you make to a personwho is of utmost importance in your life. To always come? That’s not a casual guarantee. It means wherever and whatever you are doing, when that person calls, they skyrocket to first priority. He can’t mean it inthatsense. Luke Abbot has other things on his plate. I think back to when I brought soup to his office and decide he must be concussed to be saying these things right now. Standing to get better leverage, I reach down to hold an ice pack against his left side.

“You’re still in your dress,” he says abruptly. “You should change out if it.”

“After.”

“Now.”

“Don’t rush me. There are more bruises that are going to form on your back that I still need to attend to.” I move faster, quickly shifting to the ice pack to his left side. If I can at least get one round of compression everywhere he’s hurt, it will help, and then?—

“Rita.”He’s never used that tone on me. It’s guttural enough to make me stop. “Change into something else.”

My eyebrows draw together. “Why are you so?—”

I look down at the position I’ve put myself in, standing and bending over him. My eyes widen. It’s—my breasts—they are very voluminously pushing out. A little tug downwards and they’d basically pop out.

My cheeks blaze at the visual.

Luke is reacting to that. Because he is my boss and I am his employee. This pose violates so many lines, considering I am inches away from smothering him with my cleavage.

I try adjusting the neckline to pull it up higher.

“Stop.” What a threadbare command from him. “It’s—I can’t handle—this,” Luke continues. “It. Not when you look like?—”

“It’s unprofessional, Iknow. Sorry!”

I stop fiddling because it’s causing more jiggling than anything, and step away from him, for his expression has gone half feral. He must be pissed. “I’ll change, and then I’ll come back and check in on you.”

“Don’t. I’ll be sleeping.” He rubs his hands roughly over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been up…” He pauses as if mentally calculating it. “…for forty-eight hours straight. I’m buggered.”

“The adrenaline has left your body.”

“It appears so.”

“I think it’s okay to lie down. You can rest. I’ll watch over you.”

“Go sleep in your own room, Rita.”

He lies down, eyes already closed, as if doing so will encourage me to get out. I debate watching him until he actually does fall asleep, but I feel strange about it, so I leave, shutting the door behind me. I don’t get far when I hear it. His aggravated groan.

He really didn’t want me in there.

Feeling listless, I meander around the apartment before finally going into my own room. A part of me thinks I’m still in shock as I shower, dry off, and change into my oversized cozy pajamas. Then I lie down and try to sleep.

It doesn’t work. I can’t rest.

Half an hour later, nothing has changed.

I toss and turn, but there is no escaping the worry clawing at me.What if he’s actually concussed?Sure, he kicked me out of his room, but I’ve temporarily taken on the mantle of being his doctor tonight, so that gives me certain rights.

Like sneaking back into his room rights.

He’s left the door unlocked again, and it isn’t strange if I slide an armchair over to his side of the bed and watch him breathe for a while. One would call it a focused wellness check.

My eyes trace over his face. Even resting, his features are roguish and gorgeous—though leaning more to roguish right now. It’s the bruised mouth. It looks worse now, and that fact has me huddling into the armchair. It’s inside me. Living. Breathing. The guilt. I shouldn’t have put myself in such a vulnerable situation tonight, one where he had to come save me. Where he gothurtsaving me.