“You weresick,” I say instead. “You needed help.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. Just shrugs and lets it drop.
Smart woman.
She moves toward the French press.
“What are you doing?” I block her path without thinking.
She frowns. “Helping. You clearly need it.”
I don’t move from her path. “I don’t need help.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own coffee.”
“Are you?” She gestures at the evidence to the contrary. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re about to waste more grounds.”
“Sit down.” It’s not a request.
“Excuse me?”
“You just broke a fever. You’re still weak. Sit down before you fall down.” I remember finding her lying on the bathroom floor. She doesn’t know how badly that scared me.
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You were delirious last night,” I insist.
She steps toward me defiantly. “AndnowI’m not.”
We’re standing too close. Close enough that I can smell the coconut shampoo in her hair. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough that my body is doing things my brain explicitly told it not to do.
My cock stirs.
Fucking stirs.
Fuck.
“Fine.” I step back. “Tell me what to do.”
Victory flashes across her face. “Make sure you use water that’s not quite at a boil. Or it burns the grounds.”
I grab the kettle. “It’s been sitting here for a bit. Should be the right temperature.” I pour.
She nods. “Now grounds. Two tablespoons per cup.”
I measure. Add them to the press.
“Stir gently,” she continues. “Make sure the grounds are all soaked.”
I stir with a spoon.
“Now wait four minutes,” she says. “Set a timer.”
“I don’t need a timer.”
“Youabsolutelyneed a timer.” She’s moved to the kitchen island, and is leaning against it for support even though she won’t admit she needs it. “Four minutes. Not three. Not five.”
I sigh, then set the timer on my watch. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.” Her sarcasm matches mine. It’s oddly satisfying. “Nice watch, by the way.”
