“With what?” she challenged, turning to face him fully. “You could barely stand upright. And you have the Beauchamp meeting on Wednesday, which you can’t afford to miss because you worked yourself into pneumonia.”
“It’s not pneumonia,” he muttered.
“Not yet,” she said. “But it will be if you drag yourself into the office tomorrow in some misguided display of corporate martyrdom.”
“It’s called responsibility.”
“It’s called stubbornness,” she countered. “And it’s going to land you in the hospital if you don’t take a day to actually recover.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he said stiffly.
“Good, because I’m not offering to be one,” she shot back. “I’m being a practical human being who recognizes that sometimes bodies need rest. Even yours, shocking as that may be.”
He opened his mouth to argue further but found himself suddenly exhausted. The small burst of energy that had propelled him from bed to kitchen was fading rapidly, leaving him hollow and drained. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to focus through the returning haze.
“Are we having our first fight?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.
She burst into laughter. “As opposed to what? The daily verbal sparring matches we’ve engaged in for the past six months?”
Despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth lift. She had a point. Their professional relationship had always involved a certain amount of intellectual combat. “Fair point.”
Her laughter faded, but the warmth in her eyes remained. “Eat your soup. Then you can go back to bed and plot world domination or whatever it is you do when you’re not terrorizing boardrooms.”
“I don’t terrorize boardrooms,” he said. “I manage expectations.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” she asked, the teasing note returning to her voice. “I’m sure the intern you made cry last month would disagree.”
“He submitted a report with three numerical errors,” he said defensively. “In finance, those kinds of mistakes can cost millions.”
“And pointing them out privately wouldn’t have achieved the same result?”
He considered this, frowning. The question made him uncomfortable because it suggested alternatives he hadn’t considered. “It wouldn’t have made the same impression.”
“On who? The intern or your ego?”
The words stung because they carried truth he didn’t want to examine. He’d built his reputation on exacting standards and ruthless efficiency. Fear was a tool, and effective tools weren’t discarded. But sitting here in his kitchen, wearing sweatpants and eating homemade soup while she challenged him with gentle persistence, that approach felt suddenly…crude.
“You’re bold for someone who commandeered my kitchen,” he said, instead of answering directly.
“You’re grumpy for someone who got served homemade soup,” she countered.
They lapsed into silence again, but it was comfortable rather than tense. The soup was working its magic, lessening illness’s grip on his body and clearing his thoughts. He found himself studying her profile as she ate—the way she tucked loose hairbehind her ear, the small crease of concentration between her brows.
“It’s excellent,” he said finally, setting down his empty spoon. “The soup. Thank you.”
Something in her expression softened. “You’re welcome.”
“What’s in it? It tastes different from any soup I’ve had before.”
“Family secret,” she said. “My grandmother would haunt me if I told you.”
“Even your fake fiancé?” he asked, testing the waters with humor while observing her reaction.
Her cheeks flushed, but her voice stayed steady. “Maybe especially my fake fiancé. She’d see right through you, you know. Grandma Sinclair had a sixth sense about people. She’d take one look at those spreadsheets you call a personality and know exactly what we were up to.”
“I’m more than spreadsheets,” he said, strangely stung by the assessment.
“I know,” she said, her voice quieter than expected. “I was joking. You’re also quarterly reports and profit margins.”
