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“I’m not asking you to do anything for me,” I snapped. “I can make it myself.” Once I figured out how to make the ceiling stop spinning.
“You can’t stand on two feet, let alone operate anything that’s capable of setting this house on fire,” he pointed out. The asshole. “Stay here,” he said, then strode out of the room.
I tried to get up because I didn’t like being told what to do. I especially didn’t like Kip telling me what to do.
Kip.
Myhusband.
“Ugh,” I said out loud, falling back on the bed when I tried to get off it.
My stomach churned. I was pretty fucking wasted. By design. I knew myself well enough to know that if I didn’t eat in the next fifteen minutes, I’d be vomiting the rest of the night.
I didn’t have any snacks on my nightstand. A rookie fucking move. And the kitchen was too far away.
The room was spinning.
I was fucked.
I wasn’t sure how long I lay there staring at the ceiling, but it couldn’t have been fifteen minutes because I didn’t vomit yet.
Kip’s footfalls sounded as he walked back into the bedroom.
“You’re deluded if you think you’re sleeping in here,” I informed him, though I wasn’t in any state to properly protest him if he decided to.
He didn’t reply, just set something down on my nightstand.
I gazed lovingly at the plate with a grilled cheese. He placed water and pills next to it, but they were far less interesting.
“You made me grilled cheese?”
“Either that or you choke on your vomit in the night,” Kip said.
“Did you put arsenic in it?” I asked, sitting up.
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be smart of me to poison my new wife on the night of our wedding.”
I regarded him, trying to figure out his tactics, why he’d make me a sandwich of all things.
His lips were still stretched upward, but his eyes were doing something different. They looked almost… melancholy. But surely that was too complicated of an emotion for a man who was so shallow.
I snatched the grilled cheese, shoving it in my mouth with a groan of pleasure. “You can go now,” I mumbled past the food. “Thanks,” I said after I swallowed, reluctant to say it. I waved the sandwich in his face. “For this. And for, um… marrying me, I guess.”
His mouth thinned. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said gruffly. “I did this for my own reasons.” He stared at me, and I suddenly felt small and vulnerable. “I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, Fiona. You’d do well to remember that.”
Then he turned and walked out of my room.
I stared at the empty spot he’d been standing in, blinking rapidly. “Well, fuck,” I muttered. Then I went back to my sandwich.
There might’ve been a time to think further on his cryptic little parting statement, but when I had a hot grilled cheese in front of me, I had other priorities.
And despite the sandwich and what such a gesture might communicate, I’d never forget that Kip wasn’t doing this for noble reasons. I’d never mistake him for the hero.
* * *
My head was pounding the next morning.
Daggers were being plunged into my temples.
