He slides an arm behind my shoulders, and the solid warmth of him against my back makes me want to just melt into him and stay there.
He lifts me with one hand while holding the water glass with the other. “Drink.”
I manage a few sips before my head falls back against his arm. Against all that hard muscle I can feel even through the thick cashmere.
“More,” he insists.
“Bossy,” I mumble.
“Effective,” he corrects. “Drink.”
I drink more because arguing takes energy I don’t have. The water tastes like heaven. Exactly what my body needs.
He makes me take the pills next.
“Are these to drugth me so I don’t feelth any painth when you kill me?” I ask after I swallow them.
He ignores the comment and lowers me back to the pillows. His hands are so gentle and careful, like he’s worried about breaking me.
The cool cloth lands on my forehead then and I actually whimper with relief.
“That’s better?” he asks.
I nod because words are hard and everything is swimming.
“I’ll be right back.” His footsteps retreat.
Don’t go, I want to say.I’m scared and sick and I’ve completely humiliated myself in front of you like seventeen times today but somehow you being here makes it less terrible.
He returns ten minutes later with a bowl. The smell hits me first. Not pasta this time. Chicken broth.
“Eat.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. I get a closer view of that sharp jawline withits five o’clock shadow, and those eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach do the bunny hop.
“Not hungry,” I tell him, which is the truth.
“Don’t care. Eat.” He fills a spoon, holds it out. His hands are so big the spoon looks almost delicate in them.
I try to take it but my fingers are shaking too much. The spoon and its contents would definitely end up in my lap or on these probably-thousand-dollar sheets.
He watches my failed attempt for approximately two seconds before making a decision. “Open.”
Oh no.
He’s not going to--
He absolutely is.
“I can feed myself,” I protest, face flaming.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.” The spoon moves toward my mouth. “Open.”
This is so happening.
A billionaire who looks like a Calvin Klein model is spoon-feeding me soup like I’m a toddler.
I open my mouth because resisting seems both pointless.
The broth is warm and salty and perfect.
