The counters are scattered with tins and packets, chopping boards covered in piles of fresh vegetables. A huge stockpot is steaming away on the stovetop, and my pantry door is wide open, showing shelves stocked with food I certainly did not buy.
Dominic stops when he spots me, and gives me a smile.
“You’re home, love."
“What the fuck are you doing?” I croak out, and Dominic barely misses a beat.
“Your heating’s buggered,” he says, retrieving a casserole dish from the oven. “Needs looking at.”
“I know, it’s a new system, and - Wait, what the fuck are you doing? Where’s Trish? How- How the fuck did you get in?”
Dominic pulls two loaves of bread from the oven and places them on wire racks I also don’t remember ever owning.
“The dogsitter?” Dominic asks, wiping his brow with his forearm. “Lovely girl. I sent her home.”
“She just let you in?”
Dominic gives me a smug grin. “She recognised me. Fan of the club as it turns out.”
I roll my eyes, an action I instantly regret as my head starts to pound again. I wince and press my hand to my temple. “Look, Dom, I don’t know what you’re doing but-”
“I’m cooking,” he says, gesturing around the kitchen.
“Yes, I can see that, without your clothes on and all, but I feel like death so if-”
“You go shower and get into some comfy clothes,” he interjects, going to the stock pot and lifting the lid to check on its contents. “Do you have medication to take or shall I order you some?”
“No, no, I went to Boots.” I hold up the paper bag. “All set.”
“Good.” He plucks a spoon from the counter and quickly tries some of whatever is in the stock pot. “Take that before your shower, and when you come out, the soup will be ready for you.”
“Soup?” I ask weakly.
“Yes, soup. Now, off with you, you’ll feel better when you’re all clean.”
I scrub at my face with my hands and let out a frustrated growl. “Dom, I’m exhausted, I’m really not in the mood to entertain.”
“You don’t have to entertain me.” He pauses at the counter, his huge arms looking almost comical emerging from the cheery red and white of the apron. “I’m here to help. I am here to cook you food, take the dog out for a walk so you don’t have to worry about it, and then I’ll be out of your hair, alright?” He gestures to my bedroom. “Please, go and get yourself comfortable.” When I don’t move, he sighs. “I’m not here to step on your toes. I just want to look after you. You deserve a bit of care, you know?”
I don’t like what those words do to my insides. My stomach swirls, and I tell myself it’s just this stupid flu. My head is truly pounding now, and with a groan I shuffle across the room.
“Fine, I’ll go shower.”
“And don’t forget that medication!” Dom calls after me, and I respond by lifting the paper bag in the air and shaking it as I walk away.
Tank scampers alongside me, and I glare down at him.
“Traitor,” I mutter, to which he just replies by yipping merrily.
By the time I’m out of the shower, the cold and flu tablets have started working, and my head’s only marginally pounding. My whole body still feels achy and sore, and I know I’m in for a rough night.
When I get back to the kitchen, Dom’s out of his apron and back in his shirt (thankfully - I think…) and barking orders at someone on the phone.
“Well the house feels like a Swedish sauna, and my daughter-in-law is ill.” He taps his fingers on the counter and nods. “Yes, I know it’s late, but when you install a sub-standard system with a fancy bloody computer screen instead of a dial I could fix myself, then that’s not my problem. She needs proper heating.” He spies me loitering in the doorway, and gestures to the breakfast bar. “Yes, I’ll pay the fee, just send someone out. Yes. Within the hour, thank you.”
He hangs up and gives me a smile.
“Heater repair man will be here within the hour.”
