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Or not, I amend, noticing that his eyes are most definitely not on the soup.
“Half right?” he asks, the question coming a heartbeat later than it should. I won’t tease him, not when he’s feeling down. But the second his strength is back…
“I cooked, but I didn’t shop. Got the groceries delivered to my place so the doorbell wouldn’t wake you up, then brought what I needed down here.”
“Georgiana Watkins cooks,” he says, thoughtfully spooning in a mouthful of broth and noodles.
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought Park Avenue princesses had personal chefs.”
“We did. But my grandmother insisted on teaching me some basics.”
“Same grandmother who left you the money to buy a place here?”
I nod. “I’m named after her. Even though she was elderly, in some ways I feel like she did more mothering than my own mom.”
He glances up. “You’re not close to your mom?”
“No, we are,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on the glass as I gently swirl my wine. “But she embraced the whole career woman thing right at the time when I really needed someone to talk to.”
“And your grandmother was there.”
“She was.”
He studies my face for a second before turning his attention back to the soup, and I hide a smile as he devours the entire thing in big, methodical gulps.
Finally he sits back and wipes his mouth with the napkin.
“More?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Thank you. It was good.”
“Yeah, well, I kept it easy,” I say, reaching for his empty bowl and turning toward the sink to rinse it. “Figured even you would have a hard time criticizing chicken noodle soup.”
I look over my shoulder when he doesn’t say anything. He’s frowning. “That’s what you think? That you’d come in here, take care of me, cook for me, and I’d criticize?”
I lift my shoulders as
though to say Par for the course, then turn away and put the bowl in the dishwasher, which I’d emptied earlier.
When I turn back, he’s watching me with a troubled expression, but that could be because he’s just feeling crappy.
“So what now?” I ask gently. “Back to bed?”
“God, no. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days. Hell, I have been sleeping for days.”
“True, but respectfully, you’re not looking yourself.”
“No, and I don’t feel it either,” he says irritably, running a palm along his scratchy cheek, looking thoroughly put out.
“We could watch a movie,” I suggest.
His attention snaps back to me in surprise.
I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Or I can leave.”
“No, that’s not—” Andrew flexes his fingers before reaching up and running both hands over his hair in a quick, frustrated gesture that’s so unexpectedly spontaneous I laugh. I think I like sick Andrew. His guard’s down, and it’s…endearing?
