Page 22 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

“I am.”

“Hmph. Fine. Come in.” He opened his door with a flourish. “It’s adorable. I know, I know. Snoop away while I change my clothes.”

He left his shoes in the foyer on a mat under a small console table and hung his coat on a hook beside a mirror before shuffling off, in his socks, across the hardwood floor.

Okay, he was right. I was curious. The urge to peek at personal photos, scan his bookshelves and the artwork on his walls for clues was strong. And no, that wasn’t like me at all, but I was more intrigued by Louis Moody than ever.

However, I was here for soup duty, not snoop duty.

I bypassed the cheery blue-and-white living room with a comfy-looking sectional and a flat-screen over the brick fireplace and the adjoining dining area with striped wallpaper and lace curtains, and headed for the kitchen at the rear of the house. It was a small space, painted the palest shade of lavender. The appliances, tiles, and cabinets were white, but the barstool cushions were bright purple and the cups and saucers on the open shelf above the sink were a colorful mix of floral and striped patterns.

It was cheerful and fun…like the version of Moody I remembered.

I set the bag on the counter and rummaged for a bowl and spoon. The soup was still warm, but I thought he might want some tea, so I took the liberty of filling his teapot. I turned on the front burner, pivoting at the sound of bare feet on the kitchen floor.

The poor guy looked like hell. His eyes were puffy, his nose was red, and he was paler than normal.

“Here’s your soup,” I said, sliding the bowl on the table near the window. “I put water in your kettle for tea. Do you have any peppermint or chamomile?”

Moody stared blankly as if none of my words computed. “Uh…”

“Hey, are you okay?”

“No, I’m terrible. But tea isn’t so terrible, so…yes, please. It’s in the pantry.” He fell onto a chair and buried his head in his hands. “Woe is me.”

I made the tea and helped myself to a glass of water.

“Do you have a fever?” I asked, sitting across from him.

“Meh, I don’t think so.” He picked up his spoon and skimmed it over his soup.

“Have a bite, Moody.”

I expected a sassy reply, but he obeyed. And for a short time, the clink of his spoon against the side of his bowl was the only sound in the room. Occasionally, he’d lift his gaze to me, but he seemed to have lost a little spunk. No doubt he was exhausted. Being sick and crabby took it out of a guy.

“You don’t have to stay, you know. I’m a big boy.Ah-choo. I can take care of myself.”

Okay, so he was still a pain in the ass.

“I know, but everyone could use a hand once in a while.”

“True. That’s not the case now, though. I’m perfectly capable of eating soup on my own. You’re here for your own reasons, and all I can say is your timing is doo-doo.”

“Doo-doo?”

“Yep, stinky, rotten, sucky egg balls.” He slurped a noodle into his mouth and blinked back tears. “I’m a hot mess, and guess what?”

“What?”

“I have a cold, too.” Moody cackled at his joke, which led to a wicked coughing fit.

“Oh, boy. Have a sip of tea.”

“No, I?—”

“Moody…”

“Leave me al?—”