Doesn’t he have a workshop to run?
I drag myself upright, which takes a good minute, and then shuffle to the door. When I open it, Corin’s standing there holding a bag that smells like... ginger?
“You’re supposed to be at the clinic,” I tell him.
“Marisol’s handling the workshop.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, which should annoy me but honestly I’m too tired to care. “When did you last eat?”
I think about this. “Yesterday? Maybe?”
His jaw tightens. “Sit down.”
I sit on the edge of the bed because standing is overrated anyway.
He moves into the kitchenette area and unpacks the bag. There’s a thermos of tea, containers of soup, and what look like fever reducers.
“Ysela sent supplies,” he explains.
That would be his Bahamas House Manager, who he’s mentioned a few times now.
I’ve never met her.
And I doubt she knows I even exist.
Still, it’s a sweet lie, so I decide not to call him on it.
He pours tea into a mug and brings it to me. “Drink this. It’s ginger. Good for nausea.”
I take the mug and wrap my hands around it. I take a sip and yep, definitely tastes like ginger.
“It’s terrible,” I tell him.
“But it works.” He disappears back into the kitchenette. I hear the microwave running.
He returns with a bowl of soup on a tray.
He’s heated soup for you.
The billionaire heated soup for you like you’re a child who can’t operate appliances.
Shut up and let him.
He sets the bowl on my lap. “Eat.”
“Bossy much?” I try to quip, but it comes out a squeak.
“Only when necessary.” He sits in the armchair across from the bed and fixes those dark eyes on me. “Eat, Amara.”
I take a spoonful. It’s chicken soup with vegetables.
Tastes like actual heaven right about now.
I take another spoonful.
“More,” he says when I pause.
I glare at him. “Iameating.”
“Faster,” he insists.
