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The little boy pops up, grabs my purse and brings it over to his dad.
“Thanks.” Adam unlatches the top and pushes his hand in as if he owns the bag. His arm muscles bulge when he fishes around and, finally, he pulls out my headache medication.
I point. “Can you get my coffee from the table?”
“You’re not supposed to drink this with coffee,” Adam says firmly.
I bristle at his tone. It sounds like he’s going to be stubborn about this. “The side-effects make me sleepy, and I can’t afford to feel drowsy right now.”
“Rowan, I need you to get a cup of water from the kitchen,” Adam instructs his son, completely ignoring me.
“Okay.” Rowan bobs his head.
Adam stops him with a sharp look. “Don’t go anywhere else than the kitchen. Come right back here.”
“I will,” Rowan promises.
“Thanks, Rowan,” I say in a more gentle tone.
The little boy scurries out of the room and shuts the door behind him.
I notice Adam staring at me and struggle to sit up straighter. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“How do I look?” I toss back.
His brown eyes flash with concern, then spin through a kaleidoscope of unreadable emotions, finally landing on one I can name—frustration. “You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders for way too long.”
“You’re over-exaggerating.”
His fingers skate over my head. At his touch, my stomach flutters with a horde of deranged butterflies.
That’s bad.
Very bad.
I cannot have butterflies with my boss.
“You’re sweating,” Adam whispers.
“People sweat.” I gently push his hand away.
He eases back. “I contacted the PR team. I heard what you’re going to do with the reporters.”
“Are you trying to scold me or praise me?”
His lips twitch. “If I say I’m scared of you?”
“A compliment then.”
He chuckles.
“We don’t have time to waste.” I close my eyes. “Since the news is so eager for something to report on, we should give them something to work with.”
Ifeelhim smiling. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s as palpable to me as my next breath.
“Did you see your sister off?” Adam asks.
