Isnap my eyes to him.
I blink.
I squint.
And I wait.
But the punchline doesn’t come. Xander is standing there, all six feet, one hundred inches of a god-like male form, with that latent smirk.
He’s waiting for my reaction.
But I’m not getting the joke. It is a joke, isn’t it? He can’t be serious.
A laugh escapes me. Even to my own ears, it sounds a bit deranged.
“What do you mean,a marriage proposal?”
“Let’s wait for breakfast, and then we’ll talk. I need a showeranyway.”
“Xander,” I warn, but he saunters out of the room. “Xander!”
The bathroom door closes. I plop back onto the pillow.
My first thought? At least there are fresh towels for him on the shelf. What the fuck? He drops a bomb and leaves me hanging, and I care about his comfort?
I didn’t even invite him to stay in the first place.
But if I’m honest, I’m grateful he stayed. The atrocious tea aside, as much as I wanted to ascertain my independence, I was in no shape to cope alone.
And if he hadn’t shown up—let’s not think about the alleged reasons—it could have ended up way worse.
Plus, the sheet-wrestling show was strangely arousing, but perhaps my fevered brain was sending the wrong signals. And him constantly re-tucking me in has been annoying and endearing at the same time.
As uncomfortable as it is for me to rely on someone, having him around hasn’t been bad at all.
The man is an ultra-rich business genius with no practical life skills, but he didn’t call his helpers to make my bed.
He probably made his first ever tea for me. Not that he got any better with the third or the tenth, but he put the effort in.
And all the food. He’s been sourcingnutritious meals for me while I sweated in my bed and barely took a spoonful.
A thoughtful Xander.
If I stop fighting the help, ignore the guilt from accepting it, and surrender to the situation, I must admit it feels really good to be cared for. I haven’t experienced that in the longest time.
The universe probably sent me this moment of receiving, so I can continue giving. Perhaps it’s not selfish to indulge in his care. Maybe it’s fine.
Besides, the sexual tension between us is a plus. Or a minus—I’m not sure yet.
A marriage proposal, though? What the fuck? Is that some fucked-up way to help me? Why would he want to go to such lengths? It makes no sense.
“Even in the shower, I could practically hear you overthinking,” Xander says from the living room. “The breakfast is here.”
“I don’t have time for breakfast. I have to go to work.” I push to a sitting position as I hear him open the door, murmur something, and close it again.
Fuck, I need to go prep and open. The idea brings tears to my eyes.
“You’re not going anywhere today,” Xander calls from my kitchen, while he opens and closes all the cabinets and drawers by the sound of it.
