“Making my grandmother’s chicken soup,” she said, adding a pinch of her secret ingredient.
“That’s not fake-fiancée behavior. That’s real relationship territory, with a side of rom-com.”
She froze, wooden spoon midair. “I’m being a decent human being,” she said, though the words felt hollow.
“Sure,” Lucy said. “Keep telling yourself that. But decent human beings call for help or drop off soup. They don’t spend the night and cook family recipes in kitchens that aren’t theirs.”
Lucy’s words echoed her own thoughts with uncomfortable accuracy.
“It’s not like that,” she said, though the ache in her chest suggested otherwise.
“If you say so,” Lucy said, clearly unconvinced. “Be careful, okay? This was supposed to be business, remember?”
“I remember,” she said, though the line between business and personal had been obliterated the moment she’d felt his head settle into her lap. “I should go. The soup needs attention.”
“The soup needs you,” Lucy said. “Right. Call me tomorrow with updates on your patient.”
As she hung up and turned back to the simmering pot, Lucy’s words echoed in her mind.
Real relationship territory.
She tried to dismiss them, focusing instead on the rhythmic motion of stirring, on the recipe that connected her to her grandmother, on anything but the man sleeping in the next room and the feelings she could no longer ignore.
But the realization had already taken root, and there was no going back.
She was in love with Ronan Wilder. Completely, desperately, hopelessly in love.
And when he recovered—when they returned to their normal roles of boss and assistant—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pretend that nothing had changed.
Chapter 15
He woketo the scent of cooking—rich, savory, and completely foreign in his apartment. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or why his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of investors during a market crash. His limbs felt like dead weight, his throat was raw, and a steady throb in his head signaled a fever still present but no longer raging.
The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 6:17 p.m. in smug fluorescent clarity. He’d slept for hours.
Memories came in fragments—the helicopter ride, the never-ending shivering, her cool palm against his forehead. The weight of her fingers in his hair. The comfort of resting his head in her lap while fever ravaged his defenses.
She’d stayed.
With effort, he pushed himself upright, the room swaying dramatically for a moment. He was still wearing his button-down shirt and slacks, now wrinkled and damp with illness. He peeled off the offending clothes with slow, clumsy fingers and stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The hallway stretched longer than it should have—some fevered trick of perception—but he made it, flicking on the light and flinching at the glare.
The mirror delivered brutal honesty. Dark circles hollowed his eyes, stubble shadowed his jaw, and his skin had the pallor of death warmed over.
The shower helped. Hot water pounded his shoulders. He lingered beneath the spray, letting the steam ease the ache in his joints and clear the mental fog. By the time he emerged, wrapped in a towel he was breathing easier.
He dressed in gray sweatpants and a worn gray T-shirt. He followed the scent of food through the apartment. The closer he got, the more vivid it became—onions, aromatic herbs, the deep richness of slow-simmered broth. He reached the kitchen and stopped short.
The scene before him was one he couldn’t have conjured in a fever dream.
She stood with her back to him, stirring a pot on the stove. She’d kicked off her shoes. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, loose tendrils curling at the nape of her neck. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled to her elbows as she hummed under her breath.
A loaf of crusty bread sat cooling on a rack he didn’t recognize. His kitchen looked…lived in. Like someone actually existed here rather than merely occupying space.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, so he took another moment to observe this domestic scene. How naturally she inhabited corners of his life he rarely entered himself. How her presence filled spaces he hadn’t even realized were empty.
“What is that smell?” he finally said.
She startled, spinning around with a wooden spoon in hand, eyes widening as she took in his appearance.
