Page 23 of Solo

“I’ll take honey if you have it,” I say, thinking of my throat, which is feeling raw again. He nods and pulls one of those plastic bear-shaped bottles from another cabinet.

“So, do you cook?” I ask, trying to find some neutral conversational ground.

He looks up from where he’s squeezing the amber-colored guts out of the honey bear. “Why do you ask that?”

I gesture at the six-burner stove.

“This just seems like a cook’s kitchen.”

The kettle must have been warm already because it whistles after less than a minute. He shrugs as he pours water into the cup and sets the tea in front of me.

“Cooking was more my ex-fiancée’s thing when she lived here. But I don’t mind it. I was just going to make myself some dinner when I found you outside.”

Great. So now I’m keeping him from his supper on top of everything else. Well, if he’s trying to make me feel guilty for disturbing him, he’s doing a damn fine job of it.

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” I say softly as I take a sip from the mug.

Oh. So, so good.

I spend a long moment with my nose inside the rim, taking in the warm, moist steam coming off the liquid. When I look up, he’s watching me a little too closely for my liking.

“Are you still feeling sick?” he asks suspiciously, eyeballing me as if an alien might pop out of my stomach and scurry across the wide plank wood floor at any time.

“I’m still a little under the weather, but I’ll be fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“You really don’t look well at all,” he informs me.

Gee, thanks, Professor Prince Charming.

“Yeah…”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you,” I say quickly. Food is definitely not at the top of my list right now and the last thing I want to do is hurl in his house.

“You look tired, too. Are you tired?”

I open my mouth to reassure him that I’m fine, but the truth is that I’m not. I’m not fine at all. I nod yes. Yes, I am dead tired. Markham points toward the far end of the kitchen.

“Go ahead and take the tea through that doorway and down the hall to the den. There’s a big couch in there and I’ve got a fire going. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right there.”

I get up and follow his directions, coming out in a room that makes my jaw drop. The vaulted ceilings continue in here, but with a rich, wood plank surface to complement the beams. A river rock fireplace sits in the middle of one wall, flanked by built-in bookcases that go all the way up. On the other side of the room is a baby grand piano, set in front of tall picture windows.

“Wow,” I murmur under my breath as I make my way to the plush, overstuffed couch facing the fireplace. I’m struck by the fact that there isn’t a television in this room. Either he doesn’t watch, or he’s relegated it to some other space. Of course, with the number of books on the shelves and the small pile on the table by his rocking chair, I’m guessing he prefers to pass the time reading.

I sit gingerly on one end of the couch with my tea, making a concerted effort not to gawk at my surroundings. It’s just so strange to see Drew Markham in this context. No suit, no briefcase. No snarl.

Well, okay, maybe a little snarl.

But this is where he lives, where he spends his hours when he’s not at work. It occurs to me that if I look hard enough, I might just stumble across a few clues as to why he’s such an ass. I hear his footsteps in the hallway and when he appears in the den, he’s carrying a glass of water.

“Do you have a headache?” he asks.

“Splitting.”

He nods as if he suspected as much, taking the mug of tea from me and setting it on the end table to my left. He hands me the water and produces a couple of pills from his pocket.