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I speak too passionately, not only from my conviction but from the need to maintain inconsequential conversation instead of addressing the tension between us.
Dominic walks to the kitchen, and I hear dishes clanking. “Saving time is a good business proposition. Do you envy the person who gets rich on their idea, regardless of how stupid it is?”
He comes back with a steaming bowl and sits sideways beside me. He folds his large leg under him, carefully balancing the dish in his hands.
“I’m not jealous,” I scoff.
The tantalizing smell of the strong broth makes my mouth water. Dominic puts the spoon to his mouth and blows on it before he moves it to my mouth. He is fucking feeding me.
I want to protest, but as my lips part he shoves the spoon inside, and the warm taste of home and comfort explodes on my tongue. So much for avoiding the feelings’ exploration.
“Why are you so angry about the stupid ginger shot?” Dominic puts another spoonful into my mouth before I can answer.
The topic of the conversation does nothing to lessen my confusion over all of this. Over the intensity of his gaze unraveling me. Over his care of me. It’s too much. Too touching. I’d prefer to fight over the world’s injustice.
“It’s the money people spend buying this bullshit. It could be used better.”
I swallow three more spoonfuls before he answers. The soup spreads through my stomach, but the feeling reaches further. I forgot that simple chicken stock can have healing properties.
I try to ignore the scene by itself. Intimate. A simple yet profound moment. Dominic slowly puts the spoon in my mouth, his eyes lingering on my lips. I’m weak and congested, but I feel so beautiful, important, and cherished as he takes care of me.
“It could be used better?” He studies me. “Like paying the medical bills for all people who didn’t prevent the flu because they didn’t drink ginger?” He shrugs, a lazy smile curling his lips, and silences me with another spoonful.
He puts the bowl on the coffee table and leans in, cupping my face. “You don’t have to be angry all the time, Chils. You’ve been changing people’s lives. Even if it’s not enough, it still is a hundred percent more than what it would be if you didn’t care.”
His words wash over me, tasting and sticking like honey. Dominic captures my mouth, gently nibbling on my lips, trailing his tongue across them.
I open for him, starved for the tenderness I didn’t even know I needed. Unsure what to do with my defenses as he chips at them.
The kiss is decadently slow and I want it to last forever, but my congestion forces me to pull away. “I can’t breathe.”
And I can’t, but not only because of my sickness. I’m overwhelmed by the whirlpool of emotions stirring inside me, suffocating me.
Dominic grabs a tissue box from the table and tosses it in my lap. “Talking about doing more, I have a surprise for you.” He walks over to his dining table and grabs something from the top of the pile.
“Why don’t you set up an office in your spare room?” Every time I’m here, more books and folders are strewn around.
“I won’t be here long enough to go to the trouble.”
He walks over to me with the document, but I have to look away because his casual mention of the tight timeline for his stay makes my stomach squirm with dread.
Why? I always knew there was an expiration date. I welcomed it because it made this whole fake dating ploy feasible. Stupid head cold.
He kneels, sinking his knee into the sofa beside me, and holds out the document. It’s a request for a title change. I scan the words.
“This is the building beside the hospice?”
“I bought it.” He beams at me. A warm smile, rather than his typical cocky grin, his eyes glistening with expectations.
“You what?”How does that align with him leaving?“What are you going to do with it?”
An array of emotions swims through me as I try to comprehend what he is telling me.
As I try to adjust to the mischievous but hopeful look on his face.
As my lack of comprehension crashes against my growing apprehension, because either he’s sending mixed signals or I’m still impaired from my fever.
“What arewegoing to do with it? I thought I could run a niche legal clinic for the people with illness and disabilities on the ground floor.” He waves his hand, as though dismissing a minor detail, and I try to fight my excitement because this makes no sense.
