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“Y-Yeah…I’m actually kind of hungry.”
I watched as she placed two white ceramic bowls on the counter, giving each a loving pat before stepping back. Steam rose from the hearty soup, carrying with it the faint scent of onions and cream. Taking a deep breath, I scooped up some of the broth into my spoon and cautiously brought it closer to my lips. The warmth that spread through my body was comforting, like a hug from an old friend. It brought me back to childhood days spent sick in bed, while my mother cooked up this very same recipe in the kitchen.
I had to clear my throat before I trusted myself to speak. Maybe it was the remnants of the fever, but I felt unaccountably emotional. “This is…this is perfect. I hate to say it because it is so fucking cliché, but this is just like my mother used to make.”
Cassidy laughed. It was genuine, and it warmed me more than the soup did. I sat back, letting my stomach adjust to the food, but I already felt much better. Neither of us said much as we finished the meal. The tension spread out between us, filling the empty spaces with a deafening noise. Now that I didn’t feel like I was at death’s doorstep, I was painfully aware of everything that remained unsaid.
She grabbed both bowls and took them to the dishwasher. I cleared my throat.
“Thank you, Cass, for…for makin’ the soup and taking care of me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Connor.”
“But I want to. I know the last few weeks have been hard on you, and you didn’t have to be so kind to me. Especially after how I acted when you left.”
She fidgeted. “I think we were both at fault.”
Well, that was a surprise. She really did want to talk.
I started to speak, but broke off into a dry, rasping cough, trying to hide a grimace of pain as the stitches pulled again.
“Is your throat still sore?”
I nodded, and she turned and set a steaming mug on the counter in front of me. Tentatively, I took a sip. It felt like utter heaven to my raw throat.
“This is good—what is this?”
“Herbal tea.”
I groaned theatrically. “Herbal tea—if only the guys could see me now.”
Her lips flitted up in a smile. “I guarantee you, they whine and drink the same stuff. Men are the biggest babies when they’re sick. Besides, I added in a shot of whiskey. Irish cure.”
I felt myself smiling back at the saucy little wink she gave me. "Now we're talking. And besides, how else am I supposed to act when I’ve got a pretty lass like you nursing me back to health?”
Cassidy dipped her head, turning slightly to hide the smile and the blush on her face.
Wait a minute. Was I flirting with her? And..she liked it?
Hope welled within me. I was about to say something more, maybe something that would deepen that pretty shade of rose in her cheeks, but she cut me off with a hand under my arm as she helped me to stand.
“All right, tough guy. Back to bed.”
“Cass—”
“Connor, you’re still sick. You’re going to end up right back where you started if you don’t rest.”
“And I will, I promise,” I said, laying a reassuring hand on hers. “But right now I’d just like to sit and talk a bit, if you're okay with that. I think we need to.”
She looked at me for a long moment as if trying to see something, and then her shoulders dropped. “We do,” she agreed.
Cassidy sat down on the couch opposite me. She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, carefully avoiding my gaze. It was a defensive posture, I knew, but at least she was here.
At least she was willing to talk.
Here goes nothing.
“I want to start off by apologizing for the way I acted that day we left the beach house in Maine, and for the awful things I said after you snuck out. It was cruel, throwing that in your face. I was…” I shook my head, remembering my terror seeing Moretti's men watching her. “…and then I realized what I said and I heard you crying in there, and I just left. I’m sorry.”
