“What do you think you’re doing?” Rhodes asks, stepping in front of me, his eyes coming to mine, his hands coming to my shoulders.
I try to sidestep him. “Making breakfast.”
My voice almost sounds normal.
Almost.
Of course, it’s still raspy and I feel ridiculously weak. “Uh,” Rhodes says. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Chloe isn’t even here, Stitch. So who are you going to cook for?”
I blink, glancing around as though my four-year-old charge is going to pop up out of nowhere. “Where is she?”
“School,” he says.
“She’s sick!”
“She’s had twenty-four hours without a fever—and Chrissy is picking her up after school for a sleepover, so don’t even try it,” he orders, turning me around and marching me out of the kitchen.
But he doesn’t guide me to the stairs.
Instead, he leads me to the couch, tucks a blanket around my legs, and hands me another mug of soup.
And turns on a new WWII documentary.
I scowl even though I’m touched. “I can?—”
“Watch Chloe?” he asks. “I know you can. But you won’t be doing it tonight. Tonight, you’ll rest and tomorrow I’ll pick up Chloe from school.” He sets the remote on the TV. “Afterthat we can talk about you resuming your duties.”
I scowl, but Pear is hopping up onto the couch next to me, curling close, her purrs vibrating through her little body.
He lifts a brow. “Do we have a deal?”
I slump deeper into the couch and sip the soup. “Yeah,” I mutter. “You have a deal.”
“Good.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch me again.
Then freezes and straightens.
Steps back.
Kiss me, Rhodes.
“Meow.”
Relieved by the distraction, I glance down at Olive, cradle her against my chest.
“Good luck at your game,” I whisper.
He sighs, whispers a quiet thanks, a soft goodbye.
Then he’s gone.
I eat. I rest. I cuddle kittens.
And when game time rolls around, I turn on the Eagles.
