But with guilt about Chloe rippling through me, I don’t have the energy to keep thinking about that.
Or the crippling disappointment that he didn’t.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Good.” He tucks the blankets more tightly around me then hands me the remote. “Finish your soup. Take your medicine. Drink some water. Andrest.”
“When did you get so bossy?”
“The women in my life gave me lessons.” A wink before he slips from the room.
And even though I’m grumpy about it, I still follow those orders.
Allof them.
“What are youwatching?”
I jerk my gaze from the TV over to Rhodes then hit the button on the remote to pause the documentary.
“Nothing important,” I hedge, embarrassment settling on my mortification.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
Ugh.
And now this.
“It’s a documentary on…” His brows lift. “World War Two?” Amusement drifting across his face. “What, are you eighty years old?”
“Hush. History’s important.”
“Soimportant”—his gaze flicks to where Chloe is sleeping next to me—“it makes my daughter pass out?”
“Your daughter is resting because she caught this same cold?—”
Another thing to feel guilty about.
“—not because she’s bored.”
But maybe also…because she’s bored.
He sets a plate of food (and more of his delicious chicken noodle soup—homemade, I found out) on the bedside table then scoops up Chloe. “Resting isn’t taking care of a sick kiddo,” he says wryly.
“I think she thought she was taking care of me.”
A shake of his head, but he’s smiling as he carries her from the room.
I go back to my soup, to the plate of buttered crackers, to the medicine, and to my documentary.
Whichisn’tboring.
But even as the soft voice of the narrator lulls me to sleep, I hear those awful words floating through the air.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
And my mortification grows.
Two days later,I make it all the way to the kitchen.
