Now it’s my turn to lean against the door frame, because as much as I want to—need to—take care of her and make sure she’s better, something stops me from entering her bedroom. Like I’m a fucking vampire who needs an invitation.
“With Pitt and Clooney?” She gives me a teasing smile while she leans against the footboard. Her smile is in such contrast with her grumbling, it’s adorable. But she needs to get to bed ASAP, so I snap out of it.
And yeah, the cats.
“At least I can finally count them all,” I retort.
“Oh, they hide well. Especially with a stranger around here.”
I narrow my eyes. I’m ninety percent sure she’s messing with me, but fuck, ten percent can make a significant difference in negotiations, so I’m still wary. “Just get into bed before you faint again.”
She rolls her eyes for the hundredth time. “I need to shower and get changed. And these sheets are gross.”
Fuck.
“I can help you shower,” I suggest, because she’s right, I’m not qualified to help her in any reasonable way. And if I’m honest, I’m staying for my own peace of mind as much as for her.
“Why don’t I shower while you change the sheets, since you’re insisting on helping me?” She opens her tiny closet and takes out some clothes.
My concierge service must be able to get someone here quickly. “Sure, I’ll call my—”
“You can’t change the sheets?” She snorts and walks past me.
I don’t miss the way she is supporting herself with her hand, using the wall and furniture as a cane. And the stubborn woman said she could cope by herself.
“Of course I can,” I respond quickly. Just because I’ve never done something, it doesn’tmean I can’t do it. How hard can it be? I glance at her queen-size bed. “Where are the clean sheets?”
Fuck, I’ll make an idiot of myself just to see the entertainment on her face. She points to the dresser and leaves for the bathroom.
Taking the sheets off is a breeze.
Wrapping the obstinate sheet’s corners around the mattress is a fucking nightmare. What sadist invented these things?
They stretch, they snap back, and they absolutely refuse to stay put. This corner holds; that corner pops. It’s like playing whack-a-mole with what definitely isn’t Egyptian cotton.
I grunt as I try again, wedging the corner down and using half my body weight to hold it in place while I snake around to the other side.
This mattress has no give. Why is her bed so heavy? What’s it made of? Concrete?
I finally trap one corner, then sprint around to the next, like a man trying to tame a wild animal. Which, I now realize, is exactly what this is. A white, elastic-mouthed, passive-aggressive beast.
By corner three, I’ve broken into a sweat. Not in the sexy, glistening-from-a-workout way. In the I’m-a-fucking-loser-with-no-practical-skills way.
“One more corner pops loose, and I’m setting youon fire. I’ve survived boardrooms with actual sociopaths. You’re just cotton,” I mutter.
With a final push, I jam the last corner down and straighten—hands on my hips, glaring at the now-pristine bed like it insulted my ancestors.
And then I hear it.
A strangled chuckle, and a sniffle.
I turn slowly toward the doorway. Cora leans there in a T-shirt and flimsy pajama shorts, damp curls piled on her head. She’s not wearing a bra, and her legs are calling to me in a way that is utterly inappropriate given the circumstances.
I peel my eyes off her body and meet her eyes. Amusement practically drips off her flushed, slightly feverish face.
“I’ve never seen someone threaten inanimate objects with such conviction.” She grins. “You okay there, soldier?”
I fix my expression into one of dignified suffering. “That sheet was objectively hostile. I was defending myself.”
