Page 13 of Drop Shot (On the Court #2)

ELIAS

Whimsy falls asleep somewhere in the middle of the third movie. I don’t try to wake her. I just let her sleep and rub her feet periodically when she gets restless.

Lupus.

I would’ve never guessed that she was dealing with something like that.

I guess that’s why they call certain diseases invisible, because I was certainly oblivious.

I know Whimsy doesn’t want my pity, and I don’t think that’s what it is, but I do wish I’d known sooner because there are things I wouldn’t have had her doing or I would’ve tried to be more conscious of how she was feeling and adjusted her work load accordingly.

I guess, with what I know of her, I shouldn’t be surprised she didn’t want any accommodations. She’s tenacious, so I can imagine she hates to let anything slow her down.

When the third movie ends, I go ahead and watch the next one without Whimsy waking up once.

It ends and my stomach decides to remind me that it’s hungry since I skipped lunch.

I ease off the couch, doing my best not to disturb Whimsy.

She keeps on sleeping and Craig pads behind me into the kitchen.

I could order takeout, but I decide to see what she has in her refrigerator since that’ll be healthier and I enjoy cooking.

I figure Whimsy might enjoy a nice home-cooked meal tonight that she doesn’t have to prepare herself.

Her fridge is well stocked. I set out stuff to make a salad and find ingredients for chicken piccata. Craig hops up on one of the counter stools, judging me as I prepare everything.

I chop up the salad and mix-ins, because I’ve heard Whimsy say she prefers a chopped salad to any other. I have the time so I might as well oblige. I’m beginning to realize I’ve done a lot more listening to her likes and dislikes over the years than I thought I had.

I’m making the dressing when Whimsy sits straight up on the couch with a gasp.

“Fuck.” My hand flies to my racing heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”

She looks around with bleary, tired eyes. Her blond hair is a wild nest around her head and the pillow has left an imprint on the side of her face.

“What happened?” she asks, still looking from side to side. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Obviously,” I reply, hand to my heart, because it still hasn’t slowed from its accelerated state when she first sat straight up like something out of the Exorcist.

She eases off the couch, her joints popping as she does. She lets out a groan as she stretches. Planting her hands on her hips, she surveys me from her position in front of the couch.

“And now you’re cooking dinner?”

“I skipped lunch so I got hungry,” I say defensively, clicking the tongs in my hand that I pulled out to mix the salad. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I ate the rest of your blueberry coffee cake.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I didn’t. Hence, why I’m cooking.”

She eases around the couch and into her small kitchen, eyeing the dishes.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

I grin, clacking the tongs again because I can’t help myself. “Aha! Finally! Something you don’t know about me.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to gloat about it.”

“I’m not gloating,” I defend.

“You definitely are.” Stifling a yawn, she says, “I have to pee and then I can help.”

I don’t tell her that I’ve got it pretty much wrapped up.

By the time she returns I’ve almost finished plating it.

She eyes the plates. “I’ll grab the drinks then.”

She grabs me the same drink I had before and hands it over. “Thanks.” I pop the tab and take a sip.

“I hate to admit it, but this smells delicious.”

I shake my head in faux shame. “You wound me, Whim. You really do.”

She gives my shoulder a pat. “I think you’ll survive.” She takes a seat in front of a plate and I join her. “When did you learn to cook?”

I give a soft hum as I think it over. “My parents always made sure Ebba and I were in the kitchen cooking with them, so practically forever, I guess. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t helping out.”

“What else can you make?” She spears a bite of salad.

“Pretty much anything. I mean, I’m not a Michelin star chef but I feel pretty confident in the kitchen.”

She swallows her bite. “I can tell. I bought this stuff, and I never would’ve pulled it out and made a meal like this.” She gestures to everything with her fork. “I’m pretty basic when it comes to cooking. The simpler the better.”

We finish eating mostly in silence, but it’s not strained or awkward in any way. Actually, it’s … nice. It’s rare for me to feel comfortable in silence around another person but with Whimsy it feels okay.

“I’ll take care of the dishes. You cooked,” she says, already gathering everything up.

I snag them from her. “You don’t feel good. Rest.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest so that’s how I know she’s feeling rough.

“Thank you. Are you planning to stay a while longer?” she asks, biting nervously on her bottom lip.

“I can go if you want me to. We can finish the movies some other time.”

She shakes her head. “No, stay if you want. But I’m going to take a hot shower. It usually helps with the aching.”

“Go for it. I’m fine here. I promise I won’t leave and steal your cat.” I make what I think is the symbol for scout’s honor, but I was never boy scout material so I can’t be sure.

She laughs at that. “Craig would probably walk out with you. You wouldn’t even have to steal her.”

The cat meows in what I think is agreement.

Shaking her head, Whimsy steps into her room and quietly shuts the door.

I rinse off the plates and cutlery, organizing them into her dishwasher. It’s mostly full so I put in a tab and start it.

“Is that to your liking?” I ask Craig, scratching her behind her ears.

The cat that’s stared down every move I’ve made purrs and leans her head into my touch.

I wipe down the counters and scoop Craig into my arms.

I’ve never thought about having a pet. With my job, it’s impossible, but it makes me wonder if it might be something I want down the road when I retire, which will hopefully be a long while from now.

I settle back on the couch with a blanket and the cat in my lap.

The smart thing would be for me to go back to my own place, but I don’t want to be there right now. I like spending time with Whimsy and Craig. It makes me wonder why I didn’t spend more time with her before. I mean, we were together plenty, but it was … different.

The sound of the shower running carries out into this space. I hate that my thoughts go there but I can’t seem to help myself as I picture a naked and wet Whimsy in the shower.

What is wrong with me?

I’m not blind. I know Whimsy is attractive—insanely drop-dead beautiful if I’m being honest—but since she was my employee, I maintained a strictly professional relationship with her.

Sure, I might’ve flirted some—I’m a natural flirt, I can’t always help it—but I was always careful to keep a clearly defined line between us.

Whimsy proved quickly to be exceptional at her job.

I wasn’t about to jeopardize that by sleeping with my assistant.

But she’s not my assistant anymore and she is my fake-girlfriend.

The shower shuts off and it bursts my thoughts like a bubble.

It’s not long before Whimsy rejoins us in a pair of soft looking lounge pants and matching long sleeve top.

Her long blond hair is pulled back in a scrunchie, a few stray pieces falling loose to frame her face.

I itch to reach out and touch it. To see if her hair is as soft as it looks, but I manage to keep my hands to myself.

I start the next movie. She doesn’t comment on the fact that I’ve basically taken over her television. But she’s the one who suggested the movie marathon in the first place.

When the movie finishes, I purse my lips. Laughter bubbles out of the woman at my side and I swing my gaze her way.

I arch a brow. “What?”

“You hated this one.”

My lips press together, humming thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say I hated it, but in all honestly, it’s my least favorite.”

“Same,” she agrees, queueing up the final movie. Although, I guess it’s not actually the final since she’s informed me a new one is coming soon. “Do you want some popcorn?”

“I can get it.”

She rolls her eyes. “My joints are sore but I’m not bedridden. It’ll be good for me to get up and stretch.”

“All right. I’ll use your bathroom then.”

She waves me on with a soft gesture of her fingers.

When I enter her bathroom, it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s tucked her prescription bottles out of sight. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so nosy, but I was genuinely worried.

Her bathroom smells good and I’m not sure if it’s from her hair products or a body wash. I’m tempted to pull her products out and do a sniff test, but I know that would be really weird.

I pee and wash my hands, rejoining her in the kitchen. The popcorn still spins in the microwave, and she’s pulled out a tub of ice cream and toppings.

She blushes when she catches me eyeing up the spread. “I wanted ice cream. I’m having a bad day, so I deserve a sweet treat.”

I raise my hands innocently. “I’m not judging.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you probably never indulge in ice cream.” Hands on her hips, she eyes her spread.

“You know what would be great with this ice cream?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies.” The next thing I know Whimsy is pulling out a yellow-colored tub from the refrigerator.

“Can you grab my cookie sheet?” She points to a cabinet.

I open the one she indicates and easily find it. The kitchen might be small, but it’s kept impeccably organized. I pass it over and she gets to work dropping little balls of dough onto the surface.

“Could you make some extra cookies for me?” I ask and I hope I don’t sound like a little kid begging their mom to stop for a happy meal on the way home.

She arches a brow. “Seriously?” I nod. “Hell yeah.” She adds more plops of cookie dough onto the surface.

When the oven has finished preheating, she slides the pan in and then turns to snag a handful of popcorn.

I know I shouldn’t be enjoying myself as much as I am, but I can’t help it. Whimsy is such a light. She’s pure happiness and sunshine brilliance in a person.

“You do eat sweets then?” She crosses her arms over chest, assessing me.

“Not often, but yes. I’m lucky I’ve never had a big, sweet tooth. I did scarf down that coffee cake, remember?”

She rolls her eyes. “I have to have something sweet every night. Even if it’s only a Hershey’s Kiss.”

“Sometimes I need a sweet more than other times. Usually if I’m having to be stricter with my diet that’s when it’s the worst. It’s like my tastebuds want what they know they can’t have.”

“That’s true,” she agrees. “I always want what I can’t have.” Her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and she looks away from me quickly. It has me questioning what else she might be applying that statement to.

It’s not long before she takes the cookies out of the oven. I eye them skeptically.

“They look raw.”

She sighs, tugging her oven mitts off. “If I don’t take them out now, they’ll be hard. Trust me. By the time they cool they’ll have finished cooking.”

“Whatever you say.” I reach for the popcorn bowl and grab a handful.

It’s probably another twenty minutes before we settle back on the couch with the popcorn and sweets.

Whimsy has a bowl of quickly melting ice cream overtop of a chocolate chip cookie and she eyes it with wide, gleeful eyes.

I have to admit, the cookies certainly look better now, but it remains to be seen if they’re actually cooked.

“I actually enjoyed this one,” Whimsy says, curling her legs under her.

She winces and quickly readjusts her possession.

I frown as I watch her, hating that she can’t get comfortable because of her aching body.

“A lot of people didn’t care for it, but I guess I’m just a sucker for nostalgia.

” She shrugs and pops some popcorn into her mouth.

“Sometimes I think people are too critical these days. Like we all think our opinion is the end all be all.”

“You said you hated the one we just watched.” I try to hide my smile. I mean, I didn’t care for it either but that’s beside the point.

“It’s not for me, but you don’t see me spewing my opinion all over social media about it. Social media has given people this holier than thou mindset.”

I try not to laugh. “I take it you have a lot of thoughts on social media.”

She reaches between us for another handful of popcorn. “Oh, I do, but we can talk about it some other time.” She points at the screen. “Right now, is movie time.”

I zip my lips and dig into the popcorn.

When I bite into a cookie, I have to admit she was definitely right about taking them out so early. They’re not raw at all, but they are the perfect chewiness. I finish one and grab another, trying to ignore her smug smile.

It’s late when the movie finishes and Whimsy, try as she might, couldn’t last through it and fell asleep.

A quiet groan rumbles out of me as I stand.

I’m not used to sitting so much. I stretch my arms above my head before I carefully scoop her up.

She keeps on sleeping as I carry her back to her room and pull back her covers before I deposit her on the sheets.

I settle the covers over her and she rolls to her side automatically.

Craig hops up and curls her body into the curve of Whimsy’s legs.

I give the cat a scratch behind her ears. “Keep an eye on her for me, ‘kay?” I ask the cat. She winks at me.

Before I leave, I clean up the dishes and refold the blanket on the couch. I don’t want Whimsy to wake up to a mess.

Taking the elevator down to the garage, my drive home is quiet, and it’s even more quiet when I enter my penthouse.

The whole of Miami nightlife lights up the sky outside.

I’ve always loved this place.

But I realize as I shower and change for bed that the little apartment a few blocks away feels more like home in just a few visits than this place has the entire time I’ve lived here.