But she was already beginning to hope it might.
She untangled herself from the throw and walked toward the kitchen, conscious of her rumpled clothes and the fact that she probably looked like she’d been sleeping on couches. The kitchen counter held an assortment of fruit, yogurt parfaits, and pastries, including her favorite strawberry croissants.
“Impressive,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot. “Especially for someone who was delirious with fever yesterday.”
“I wasn’t delirious,” he objected, leaning against the counter.
“You curled up in my lap like a cat.”
A flush crept up her neck at the memory of his head against her thigh, his arm slung across her legs. The weight of him, so solid and trusting in her arms.
“A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“A sweet momentary lapse,” she corrected, pouring herself coffee. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you enjoy being comforted when you’re sick.”
“I do not enjoy—” He stopped, shaking his head. “You’re baiting me.”
“Always,” she said cheerfully, taking a sip of coffee. It was perfect—strong but not bitter, exactly how she liked it. “You even got my coffee right.”
“You’ve mentioned your preferences often enough,” he said, but the words lacked their usual edge.
She selected a strawberry croissant from the bakery box and settled onto one of the bar stools, studying him. “You’re looking better, but you should still take it easy.”
“I’m well enough to go to the office,” he said, already sounding decided. “I have meetings I need to?—”
“Nope,” she interrupted, popping the ‘p’ with too much enthusiasm. “We already called out sick. The meetings are rescheduled. You are officially on sick leave today.”
“Devney—”
“Ronan,” she countered, mimicking his authoritative tone perfectly. “You worked all weekend at the Beauchamps’. You need to rest.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Sailing and dinner parties are hardly work.”
“Aren’t they, though?” she challenged, setting down her coffee. “Think about it. We couldn’t let our guard down for a single minute. Every conversation, every gesture, every look was part of a performance. That’s more exhausting than any board meeting.”
He paused, considering her words. “You seemed to excel at it.”
“I was terrified the entire time,” she admitted. “One wrong word and the whole charade falls apart. That’s work. Emotional work.”
“I hadn’t considered it as stressful as work,” he said, his voice quieter.
“Most people don’t,” she said. “But trust me, playing a role, even one you’re good at, is draining. Add in a dip in the Atlantic, fever, and our usual workload, and it’s a recipe for getting sick all over again.” She took another sip of coffee, holding his gaze. “So. One day. To recover. Is that really so unreasonable?”
He frowned, but she could tell she was winning. “What exactly would this ‘recovery day’ entail?”
“Normal human activities,” she said. “Food. Rest. Maybe a movie or two.”
“Movies,” he repeated, as if she’d suggested competitive yodeling.
“Yes, movies. Those things with pictures and sounds that tell stories.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Don’t tell me you don’t watch movies.”
“I watch documentaries,” he said defensively.
“Of course you do,” she laughed. “Let me guess—financial histories and exposés of corporate scandals?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being informed about one’s industry.”
“Nothing at all. But today is about recovery, which means actual relaxation. Entertainment.”
