“Wait. Did you just call your heating pad Channing Tatum?”
“Yes, because naming random shit is one of the few joys I have left in life, and this beautiful object gives the best damn lap dances. Do not judge me.” I point an accusatory heating pad in his direction.
He puts his hands up in surrender. “I would never dream of doing something so hazardous to my wellbeing—I’m just jealous Channing Tatum gives you lap dances, that’s all.”
“You want to give me a lap dance?” The accompanying blush that creeps across my face can’t be subtle, if the searing heat burning my cheeks is any indication.
“I don’t think your cheeks could handle it, Peaches.”
“Typical unfounded confidence.” I shake my head, sitting on the edge of the bed. Liam leans down and plugs my heating pad in while I try not to stare at his own set of cheeks. God bless the squats that man must do.
“I think some of it is founded.” He quirks a brow at my face as he returns with the pad.
Busted.
With the heat on my abdomen, the tension lightens a fraction, and I breathe a little lighter. There’s still hope I’m going to get this under control.
“You want some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Reaching into the drawer next to the bed, I pull out the “break in case of emergency” pill bottle as Liam leaves the bedroom. “Can you bring the bread and Nutella too?” I holler.
“Sure.”
“And a knife. Please.”
“That depends. Are you going to stab me with it?”
“I make it a point not to stab people who bring me Nutella.”
“Good to know. I’ll have to keep some of those travel pouches in my pocket just in case.” Dishes clatter in the sink while the water runs far too long in the kitchen.
Oh no. I’m still having trouble swallowing my pride enough to be okay with what happened in the bathroom. I can’t add cleaning up after me to the ever-growing list of things Liam’s done for me today too.
“Don’t you dare try to clean up. I’ll do it after I sleep this off a bit.”
Another clink. Another clatter.
“I have the Nutella. I can do what I want.”
Damn it. I didn’t think this through. Equipped with his dimples of doom and Nutella, that man will practically be invincible now. I need to correct the situation.
“You’re precariously close to becoming an exception to the rule.”
“And you’re precariously close to not having any Nutella.”
I bite back a grin and pretend I’m suddenly overcome with my ailments, coughing into my hand, which doesn’t even make sense, but I never did say I was good at improvisation. “But I’m so sick, and the only prescription is more Nutella.”
Liam snorts, returning to the room and balancing the tea, Nutella, and a plate in his hands, the bread tucked inside a sleeve under his armpit. “Shit, Peaches. That sounds miserable. Almost like you should stay in bed and let someone care for you for the rest of the day.”
I narrow my eyes, conflicted. On the one hand, I can totally drag my way through everything just fine; on the other hand—Nutella and not having to leave the comfort of my heating pad. Which is going to win. Every. Damn. Time.
“Fine, if you want to take care of me so badly, who am I to prevent you from your oddly placed happiness?” I pull the little lap desk I have resting on the floor near the crook of the bed and put it on my lap.
He places everything down with a phony, “Dreams do come true.” And I have to hold down my laugh or risk spilling my tea everywhere.
I am lucky at how today’s unfolding, though. Sometimes the heat doesn’t work, and I can’t get myself under control long enough to eat and take the pain meds, but I can at least manage that today. I just have to wait a little longer, and a warm dulling of my body and mind will give me the relief I was begging for an hour ago.
