“Quinn?” Cooke says as he appears at the bathroom door. He blinks, then looks at the first aid kit. “How did you know where the aid box was, love?”
“I saw it when I cleaned the bathroom.”
“You cleaned the bathroom?” he asks, scanning the room.
“Both bathrooms on this level. I also changed the sheets, did your laundry, and started on the kitchen.”
“Darling.” He chuckles. “That was unnecessary. I have a cleaner. She comes in every Wednesday.”
That’s tomorrow. “Oh.” God, I feel stupid.
He’s laughing harder now, and it makes me want to punch him in the nuts. “That’s all I’ve done since I got here, Cooke. You didn’t notice?”
How could he? He’s either been out on the patio or in bed. His bed with fresh, clean sheets. Sheets that I hung out on the line, right next to his lounge chair, so they smell extra nice.
He suddenly stops laughing. “I’m sorry, no.”
Yeah, how could he know?
I’m not sure what to say right now. I’d like to tell him off, but he’s hurt, and it’s not like he asked me to come. Or to clean. I did that all on my own. So I need to let it go.
Taking air into my lungs slowly, I release it just as gradually. I need to calm myself before I say something I’ll regret and don’t mean. I think I just need to get out of the house for a bit. “I’m going to go out for a while. I’d like to see some of London before I go home. Do you think you’ll be okay here by yourself?”
He blinks as he stares at me. “Christ,” he mutters. “I’m a fucking git.”
“No you’re not. You’re hurt. You need to rest and recuperate.”
“I’ve been a terrible host, Quinn.”
“You didn’t invite me. I just showed up. Don’t feel badly because you aren’t able to show me the sights. I’m more than capable of figuring things out on my own. I flew here by myself. I can see London by myself.” I grab my chili-soaked shirt. If I throw it in the laundry now, I might be able to save it. “Will you be okay for a while on your own?”
“Sure. Of course.” He’s still just looking at me like he can’t figure out what he should do.
Chapter Forty-Five
London is as amazing as I imagined it would be. And it wasn’t hard to get to the heart of it from Twickenham. The bus practically goes from Cooke’s street all the way to the center of the city. I, however, hop off the bus at Hyde Park. There are some cute shops all around the park, as well as pretty gardens, and since it was my first outing, I decide to take in the sights. I buy some fish and chips from a street vendor and sit on a park bench, watching and listening to people. There are lots of English accents, but there are others too. Sitting in the park is like experiencing a mini slice of the world.
After my lunch, I continue walking the through neighborhoods around the park. I stop and pick up some small souvenirs for myself and my friends and am happily surprised to find one boutique that carries the most enviable collection of nail varnish—or nail polish as I know it—I’ve ever seen. Since I neglected to pack any, I decide to buy red, white, blue, and silver along with remover, clippers, a nail file, and clear coat. I’ve already decided what I’ll do with the polish, and it has everything to do with England and Cooke Thompson.
I notice several tour companies that use double-decker buses. I’m tempted to take one of those tours, but I feel like I need to get back to Cooke. Now that I know how to get here, I can do that tomorrow. Searching for a bus stop, I find one only a block away and wait for my bus to take me back to Cooke.
When I step into the house, it’s dark and quiet. Did he leave? I hope he didn’t get upset and leave, or worse, fall and injure himself.
“Cooke?” I set my purse on top of the kitchen island and decide to check the bedroom first. “Not here,” I whisper to myself. He must be on the patio.
As quietly as I can, I push open the screen door and step onto the patio. “Cooke?” I say just loud enough.
“Here, love.”
Moving around the corner, I stop in my tracks at the sight before me. Cooke is sitting at his patio table, but it doesn’t look like it did before. Now it’s covered in a white cloth with candles glowing in the center. It’s set with pretty dishes and silverware.
“What’s this?” I ask, stepping closer.
“It’s my way of saying thank you and I’m sorry all at once.”
Our eyes meet. “You don’t need to do either thing.”
“Quinn.” When I reach him, he wraps his arms around my waist and says, “I’ve been angry and an arsehole to my friends and family since my injury. Hell, I ran off my mum and sister after two days. They said they couldn’t stand the sight of me after I treated them poorly.” Cooke chuckles. I don’t. “I’m a broody, selfish bastard since I was released from the hospital—long before you surprised me, love. My mates are staying far away from me as well. And I don’t blame any of them. But then you knocked on my door, and for some reason, I felt better. At ease. So much so, I slept for the first time in a week.”
