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“If only you’d do as you’re told, it’d be a lot less painful.” She cocked an eyebrow. “The President?”
“Woodrow bloody Wilson.” He propped himself up and swiped the sleep from his eyes. After two hours in the ER, a battery of tests, and a boatload of pain killers, they had finally made it back to Jack’s hotel. Per the doctor’s instructions, she had awoken him every couple of hours to pose interrogatory gems like ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘what city are you in?’
Now, he looked crumpled and grumpy and panties-melting hot.
“Where did you sleep, Mrs. Kilroy?” he asked around a yawn. He even yawned sexily.
“On the sofa in the other room,” she murmured, his casual reference to their faux marital status making her light-headed. Last night, the doctor had mistaken her for Jack’s wife, a conclusion Jack found incredibly amusing. Lili hadn’t had time to be amused—she was too busy having a mini-series of heart attacks, deathly worried she had caused him brain damage and deprived the culinary world of its leading light. After his dramatic collapse outside her door, he came to in less than a minute. It had only been the worst minute of her life.
“You should have slept in here with me, my blushing bride. This bed is huge. We could have gone days without finding each other.”
“I hear people with brain injuries often have problems with impulse control,” she said. Along with women who haven’t had any in months. “Though I suppose I would have been safe with you, now that you’re a born-again virgin and all.”
“It would have been hard, I mean, difficult,” he said, grinning. “But I think I would have managed.”
He stretched and the sheet fell down to his waist, revealing a rather monumental chest with a pleasant ratio of hair to skin. Her mouth watered at his defined pecs and ridged abs, so tight she could bounce a British pound coin off them. Absolutely ab-ulous, she could hear Gina leering like a little devil on her shoulder. He was tan, not overly so, but enough to debunk the stereotype of the pasty Englishman. How she wished she had her camera.
“Do you—do you work out?” she asked, her voice as taut as the muscles on show.
“I have to, I’m a French chef. Mostly running, swimming, and—” He chuckled. “Hey, my face is up here.”
Grabbing a pillow that had strayed to the end of the bed during his restless sleep, she lobbed it at his perfect face. “Maybe I’m just sick of looking at it.”
He threw the pillow back at her. “You could always look at something else. That usually leads to my other form of exercise.” His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sheet.
“Keep that to yourself. I might swoon and then you’d have to take me to the emergency room.”
Laughing, he stretched again, knowing full well the effect it had. Cocky bastard. “I’m absolutely starving. Please say you ordered room service.”
“Of course I did. It’s already here.” As someone else was paying, she had taken the liberty of ordering one of everything. This was too much of an opportunity for a breakfast lover to resist.
“All right, be a good wife then. Feed me.”
Wife. Her stupid heart cranked out a few more beats than was safe, and she swallowed to calm it the hell down.
“No chance, Kilroy. I’ve already filed for an annulment.” She walked toward the door, tugging down the Black Sabbath tee she had borrowed and spent the night inhaling. When she turned back, he was regarding her with glassy eyes. Still got it, girl.
“If you have problems standing up, I can always call Laurent in to help.” If the dipso Frenchman wasn’t having problems standing up himself. She had put in a quick phone call to his room ten minutes ago and confirmed that while not upright, Pepe le Pew was at least, conscious.
Five minutes later, she had redressed in her tank top and cargo pants, and they were enjoying breakfast in friendly silence. To Lili’s regret, Jack had covered up with jeans and a Who t-shirt, the red, white, and blue target on his chest drawing her sharp focus.
I’ve got you in my cross-hairs, Jack Kilroy. “How are you feeling?”
“All right. My head’s still a bit fuzzy, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. Pain killers are doing the trick.” He sipped his coffee and slumped back on the sofa. “Thanks for staying. It went above and beyond the duties of even a fake wife.”
“I suppose I bear some responsibility with my frying pan—”
“Suppose? Oh, I’d say you bear the brunt, but don’t feel you have to apologize or anything.”
“I’m so sorry. When you hit the pavement, my heart just about stopped.”
“Ah, you do care.”
He shot her a smile so infectious it should be quarantined and her stomach flipped, reminding her of the first time she had been favored with that slice of sun. Since then, she had thrown herself at the hottest chef in the country—the hottest guy in the country—and she should feel like an idiot, but she didn’t. An incongruent mix of giddy and comfortable settled over her. What would Cara say if she could see her now?
“Oh, Cara,” she said. “I need to call her and let her know you’re still alive.” Unsurprisingly, her sister had returned none of her messages. Cara was a big proponent of pill-assisted sleep, otherwise Lili was sure she’d be knocking Jack’s door off its hinges demanding to know how her star was faring.
He groaned. “Please don’t bring Cara into this. I’ve already got the DeLuca sister who knows what she’s doing. I certainly don’t need the one who’s going to go into a tailspin at the mention of the word ‘concussion’.” Rolling his tongue around his mouth, his gaze drifted over the smorgasbord before them. “I take it you like breakfast?”
