“When was your last meal?”
I had to think about it. “Umm, around three or so…?”
He nodded once. “Then only eat what you want. I can make you tea after,” he said. “Some lemon and honey will give you enough energy to last you till breakfast.”
That sounded good, but he was already going to struggle to get me out of here.
Okay, that wasn’t actually true, but damn, he could be a little less accommodating.
“Actually, could I bother you for some painkillers?” I asked hesitantly. “I took an ibuprofen about an hour ago, but it’s done nothing so far.”
“Yeah, of course.” He crammed some bread into his mouth and rose to his feet. “What’s your poison? I have ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and naproxen, I think.”
“The first two, please.”
“Comin’ right up.” He disappeared into his bedroom for a beat before he returned with two bottles. “When I get sick, I party it up with 400 milligrams of ibuprofen and 1000 milligrams of acetaminophen. I don’t fuck around with man colds.”
I chuckled tiredly. “Clearly not.” I washed them down with some Coke Zero and hoped it would get me through the night.
Ethan didn’t struggle with his appetite, at least. While my eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and the cushions became even more comfortable, it seemed, he finished his food and then polished off my plate as well.
I liked a man with a big appetite. Sue me.
“So, other than ice cream with pretzels, you don’t even like desserts?” I asked, then promptly yawned.
“Pretty much, with one exception.” He slumped back against the cushions too, very close to me, and patted his stomach as he let out a long breath. His gaze remained fixed on the TV, where a storm was moving across Vancouver. “I can go to town on a good crumble. Not pie or cobbler, mind you. Crumble. It has to be crumble.”
“Did you say crumble?”
“Crumble,” he confirmed.
I snickered and yawned again.
“I’ll make you a crumble next week,” I said, watching the screen too. Had my parents been alive, this would’ve been the point when Daddy called Chloe and me to warn us about thestorm that wasn’t even coming our way. That’d been his thing. He’d called with weather reports.
Ethan tilted his head my way. “What kind?”
So I turned to him too. “What kinds do you like?”
I drew a slow breath, realizing I should move away or, hell, go home! But I fucking couldn’t. I hadn’t been this comfortable in ages, and my headache was finally fading. If anything, the last ten or so inches between us could fuck off too.
He hummed as his gaze flitted across my face. “I like blueberries and strawberries the best. Blackberries are never wrong either. Or apples.”
I raked my teeth across my bottom lip, which drew his attention for a hot second.
Could he be…?
“I make a good one with tart apples, caramel and oat crisp, and browned butter,” I offered. And he immediately locked eyes with me again, his interest clear as day. “And, um…strawberries with burnt sugar on top. My dad’s favorite was my mixed berry—raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries—with a little bit of rum added in.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I might need to sample all three.”
I smiled. “It’s the least I can do after you takin’ care of me tonight.” I made several others as well, way sweeter ones, but I had a feeling he’d appreciate those with a hint of saltiness.
Ethan hummed and lifted his hand again, and he felt my forehead like he’d done in the elevator.
My smile fell as the air around us suddenly felt thicker.
Washe…?
