Page 36 of One Midnight Kiss

14

NATALIA

Iwasn’t thrilled Fox was here, but I didn’t have the energy to haul him out of my kitchen. And soup didn’t sound like the worst idea. How long had it been since I’d eaten?

His presence was more inconvenient than anything else, especially since I was in the middle of one of the juiciest, sluttiest romance novels I’d ever read in my life when he decided to knock on my door.

The audacity.

The flowers were nice, I supposed, but they felt like a ploy. “Why flowers?” I called out.

“To thank you for an amazing kickoff to the campaign and as a get-well gift.”

Definitely a ploy.

Another wave of chills washed over me and I pulled the blanket tighter around me. He banged around in my kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and slammed shut. I heard the clang of a spoon hitting the floor and several low curses that made me smirk despite myself.

“Are you planning on burning down my house, or is that part of the cooking process?” I called out, voice scratchy from the cold that had flattened me since Thursday.

Fox poked his head around the corner, a sheepish look on his stupidly handsome face. “I’m working on it. Did you know you have nothing useful in your kitchen?”

“I live off takeout, so I don’t need anything useful in there.”

“No wonder you’re sick,” he said. “That’s not healthy.”

“Oh, whatever. I’ve seen your fridge. The only green thing in there was the moldy cheese.”

He grinned at me. “Things get busy around launch time.”

And yet he had taken the time to come check on me. What the hell is going on?

He disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he was here. Why, of all the people in my life, was Fox Samuelson—the playboy tech billionaire—standing in my kitchen making me soup?

It didn’t add up with the man I knew from my research into him and his background. Christa had told me the guy was a total playboy. I didn’t think I was in danger of him trying to get me into bed. I knew I looked like shit and my undercarriage could probably use a rinse. I was barely in a position to stand, let alone be desirable. So, I knew that couldn’t be the reason for his visit.

He came back into the living room carefully carrying a bowl. He handed it to me like it was a priceless artifact. “I’m really not hungry,” I said.

Through my plugged nose, I managed to smell something acidic and bitter. It didn’t smell like any soup I had ever eaten. I looked inside the bowl. It wasn’t soup. It was Theraflu, poured into a bowl instead of a mug.

I glared at him. “This isn’t soup.”

“It’s hot and it’s got medicine in it,” he said, settling onto the opposite end of the couch. “Drink it. You need it.”

“You’re aware most people make actual soup when they show up uninvited to someone’s house, right? And I have mugs. I don’t drink out of a bowl like a dog.”

He gave me a wry grin. “Your kitchen is confusing. I couldn’t find a mug, so I pivoted.”

“Pivoted?” I shook my head. “You could have just asked.”

“Drink your bowl,” he said. “As for food, it turns out you don’t have shit in your kitchen, and even if you did, I wouldn’t know how to make it. So I ordered takeout. Red curry. It’s on the way.”

I blinked at him, incredulous. “You went through my kitchen, decided I had nothing, and then ordered red curry?”

“Spicy food will clear you right up. Now drink the Theraflu before it gets cold. It does not improve the flavor.”

I narrowed my eyes but took a sip from the bowl. The bitter liquid tasted like hot fruit punch and aspirin. I choked it down my sore throat. “You better not have gone through all my drawers.”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Not all of them. I haven’t made it to the bedroom yet. But I did check out the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”