“You’re grouchy when someone tries to wake you up.”
“I know. My apologies. I’m an ass when I don’t get enough sleep.”
“You weren’t when you were in Ames.”
“Blame it on my pain capsules. My sleep is out of sorts.”
“I can see that.” I look at his leg, then back at his face. “I made you eggs and toast, but it’s probably cold now. Let me warm it up.”
“No, it’s fine. I need to eat something.”
Picking up the plate, I set it on his stomach. “I’ll reheat it.”
“No.” He takes a bite and smirks. “Delish.”
“Liar.” I giggle. “I need to get some groceries for you. Your cupboards are bare.”
“I get them delivered. I haven’t placed an order in a while. I can do that later.”
“Oh. Okay.” That sounds like a nice service. “I should do that. It’d keep me from impulsively buying goodies like ice cream and cookies now that I have a little extra money.” I laugh again. “I could lose a ton of—”
“No, Quinn.” He’s stopped chewing. “You’re perfect just as you are.”
Chapter Forty-Four
I’ve been at Cooke’s for two days. So far, it’s a romance-free zone. In that time, I learned how to order groceries, cleaned both his downstairs bathrooms, changed his sheets, cooked five meals, and did his laundry. All while Cooke slept or lounged outside on his patio. I take that back—he left for two hours yesterday after a black car picked him up. He waved at the door, saying, “Off to physio, love.”
I waved and smiled. Then, as soon as the door shut, my smile fell. I’m starting to feel a little sorry for myself. All I’ve done is housework. Heck, I haven’t even slept in the bed with him because I’m so worried I’ll bump into his metal exoskeleton and hurt him. The thing is… where is his family? I know he has a mom and a sister. Where are they? I sure haven’t heard from them. I’ve no clue if he’s got a father in his life. He doesn’t mention him. And what about his teammates? They haven’t stopped by. Hell, no one has even called him. I can’t figure it out.
Then there’s the fact that Cooke barely notices me. He literally sleeps all day long. I’m sure it has everything to do with those pain meds. I know they can make a person drowsy.
I’m not sure what I expected. I knew I’d be here to help him, but please. I also thought there’d be some cuddles, kisses, and cozy time in front of the telly. Heck, he refuses to watch TV. He says it gives him a headache. Gah! Nope. There’s nothing romantic about flying in to be with Cooke during this trying time.
Okay, maybe I’m being unfair. It hasn’t been completely unromantic. We’ve shared a few kisses here and there, but it’s weird. I don’t feel like a girlfriend right now. I’m more like a nursemaid. Yes, I wanted to make sure he was okay, and if that meant I’d be cooking and cleaning, then so be it. But now that I’m on the third day of my six-day stay, I’m getting a little irritable. I mean, I’m in London, for crying out loud. A place I’ve never been before and may never see again. I spent thousands on this trip, and all I’ve seen is the inside of Cooke’s house.
Mind you, it’s a very nice house.
I need to stop complaining. I can make this work. It’s not like there’s nothing else to do here. I could take a swim. Except I didn’t bring my suit because I didn’t think he’d have one in his house. I could throw on my shorts and a tee and swim, but I’m half afraid to ask him if it’s okay. His mood, well, it isn’t great. That first morning when he was a bit snappy was just a prelude to every morning here at Chez Cooke. I could attribute that to the pain pills as well, though. I remember when my middle brother broke his leg in high school. They put him on some pretty potent pain meds, and he got all squirrely and cranky. He was high and happy one minute, surly and bitchy the next. I assume that’s what’s happening with Cooke. At least I hope that’s all it is.
Sighing, I dish out a bowl of chili I made from scratch. Dad’s recipe. I carry the bowl, spoon, and some crackers out to the patio. He’s asleep again.
“Cooke?” I say close to his ear.
I must startle him, because before I know it, his arms are flailing around, hitting the bowl of hot chili. My first instinct is to keep it from burning him, so I fumble with it until it’s upturned and on top of my shirt. “Oh, fuck.” I almost scream but do my best to hold it inside.
“Bloody hell, Quinn. Why’d you wake me?”
Because it’s lunchtime. But I don’t say it. I can’t due to the fact that my lip is quivering. I concentrate on making it stop. I quickly turn away from him and release the bowl. It falls to the ground, breaking apart into a million pieces and splattering chili everywhere.
“Jesus, you just dropped the bowl! What’s wrong with you?”
He’s only being an asshole because he’s hurting. It’s not him.
I’m chanting that to myself, but it’s not working. I slowly turn around to face him, the tears already falling. Without a word, I lift my chili-soaked shirt so he can see my red skin. “I-It was burning me.”
“Love?” Cooke’s voice sounds panicked. “You’re burned.”
In an attempt to keep myself from completely losing it, I drop the shirt. “I’m fine. I’ll… I’ll take care of it.” I saw a first aid kit when I was cleaning the other day, so I turn and race into the house and down the hall to the master bathroom. When I spot the kit, I search it for any kind of burn relief. Luckily, there’s a small packet of aloe. Lifting my shirt, I end up with chili on my face and hair, but it can’t be helped. Tearing open the package, I squirt the cool gel onto my chest and stomach and rub it gingerly. It hurts, but I don’t think I’ll die, and the aloe helps.
