My beast was doing a happy clappy dance as he called it. The movement made my body sway even more. But I was wary of sleeping in my boss’s apartment, the same guy that made my pulse race when he was close by or when I pictured him in my head.
"You know I live above the bakery. It's warm and has proper heating." He zipped up my duffel bag. "And before you argue, this isn't a discussion. My wolf won't let me leave you here sick and freezing."
I didn’t want to think too hard about whatever was driving his wolf’s protective streak, but my own beast was excited at us being in Hawthorn's den.
I nodded, too ill to form a sentence.
I didn’t remember the drive back. The next thing I knew, we were climbing the stairs and he opened the door to his apartment, it smelled like him and the bakery combined. The espresso and fresh bread aromas had my wolf settling despite my misery.
The space was small with an open kitchen and a worn couch that looked incredibly inviting. I spied a bedroom through a half-open door.
Hawthorn lowered me onto the couch and piled blankets around me before disappearing into the kitchen. Water ran and a cabinet door slammed shut. He returned with a glass of water and two pills.
“This is for the fever. Drink the whole glass."
I took the pills obediently. When I was ill, I liked people taking charge. Not that anyone had ever looked after me as Hawthorn was right now.
He sat on the coffee table across from me and was close enough that our knees almost touched. "When's the last time you ate?"
I tried to remember. "Yesterday? Maybe?"
"Ahhhh. You need to look after yourself." His tone was scolding but gentle. "I’m making soup. Don't even think about arguing."
I wasn't going to because I was too busy trying to process the fact that Hawthorn had brought me to his private space, his den. It was the place where he lived and slept when he wasn’t kneading dough.
As he busied himself in the kitchen, I studied my surroundings. Baking books lined a shelf by the window. A fewframed photos sat on a side table of an older woman and there were some group shots that might have been from culinary school. He was either close to the people in those photos or they’d been a positive influence in his life.
The couch was comfortable. Combined with the soft blankets, I was warm for the first time in days. The knowledge that Hawthorn was taking care of me, with his scent permeating everything, conspired to lull me to sleep.
"Zale." Hawthorn's voice was close to my ear. His warm breath billowed over me. "Soup's ready."
I forced my eyes open. He held a bowl of chicken soup that smelled incredible. It had to be homemade, and it contained chunks of vegetables and tender noodles floating in a rich broth.
"You made this?" My voice was hoarse and it hurt to speak.
"I'm a baker so it’s not a huge leap to cooking. I made it yesterday. He handed me the bowl. "Eat."
He sat in the armchair across from me while I ate. With each warm sip, the tightness in my chest relaxed its grip. The heat, care and the quiet presence of the man who’d taken me in was exactly what I needed.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" The question slipped out before I could think about it.
"You show up every morning without complaint and work harder than anyone I've ever hired. And you didn't call in sick even though you should have because you didn't want to let me down." He paused, his dark eyes focused on mine. "Why wouldn't I take care of you?"
I couldn’t help but be disappointed because he was talking about a boss and employee relationship. But that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Over and over again, I’d told myself that we had to keep it professional between us and yet my heart and my beast were telling me something different.
"I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not." He spoke with such conviction that I believed him. "Now finish your soup and get some rest. I need to get back to the bakery, but I'll be up to check on you later."
He pressed his hand to my forehead and checked my temperature. I almost melted under his gentle touch and stopped myself from purring. My wolf huffed, saying wolves didn’t purr, but he enjoyed being skin to skin with Hawthorn.
“Your fever's still high," he muttered. "I'll bring more pills when I come back."
Hawthorn remade his bed with clean sheets and insisted I sleep there.
When he was gone, and I was alone in his apartment, surrounded by his scent, cocooned in the blankets and the lingering warmth of his concern, I closed my eyes, feeling more at home than I had in ages.
My wolf was convinced we were exactly where we belonged.
