Page 9 of Starlight Salon
“Not for another hour.”
He pouts, and I bite back a smile. Adorable. “Food will help.”
“Chlo.” I stop by the door when he calls my name. “Does this mean you’re staying?”
“For a little while.”
He smiles at me, eyes bright as he thanks me softly.
The soup’s been bubbling on the stove and I scoop some into a bowl, return to his room and set it on the bedside table. “You need to sit up more if you’re going to eat.”
He drags himself up slowly, grunting as he tries to get comfortable. I reach over him to grab another pillow and suck in a breath when my chest brushes his. Heat races through my body as I grip the pillow and jerk back, avoiding his gaze.
Nope. Can’t think that way. He’s sick. Definitely inappropriate to notice how firm his chest is.
I glance at him and see red creeping over his cheeks. Is it a fever or a reaction to me? “Lean forward, please.”
If it is a fever, I’m definitely in over my head, but do I want him reacting to me? I smile brightly, ignore the fluttering in my stomach, and refuse to answer my question.
He plants his hands on the duvet and accidentally brushes my leg, but he doesn’t move it as he leans forward. Tentatively, I grasp his bare shoulder and pull him towards me to stick another pillow behind his head so he can eat soup comfortably. His shoulder is warm, but not hot as I rearrange the pillows, and a shiver runs through him when my breath brushes his neck. Brown eyes follow me as I move, dark hair flatter on one side than the other.
A nudge from my hand and he’s reclined on the pillows. He pants from the exertion, and I pass him a glass of water, which he gulps.
“Can you eat by yourself?” I glance at the steaming bowl. This might not be the best idea. If he spills it, he’ll burn his bare skin, and he’s not quick enough to dodge hot soup right now.
“You made me soup?”
“You need to eat something and soup is the best when you’re sick.”
His smile is faint. “Yeah, it is. I’ll try hold it.”
I grasp the bowl and hand it to him slowly, careful not to spill anything. Luckily the bowl’s deep, so the edges aren’t hot but pleasantly warm. Lachlan takes the bowl from me and perches it on the duvet covering his lap.
“Are you sure you can hold it? I don’t want you to burn yourself.” I frown at him, watching as he lifts the bowl while trying to hold the spoon. I gasp and lunge forward when his hands slip.
“Fuck.” He closes his eyes as his chest shudders.
A hurried scan confirms he hasn’t burned himself, thank god. “I think I’ll hold the bowl, and you can hold the spoon.”
He agrees, opens his eyes and wriggles a little more upright. Scooching closer on the bed, my hip brushes his covered thigh, and I hold the bowl at his chest level. He takes the spoon carefully and scoops up broth. Swallowing, his eyes widen.
“It’s good.” He eats more.
With each bite he takes, his eyes brighten and he gains a little bit of energy. It’ll be short-lived as the medicine wears off, but at least he’s getting sustenance. I don’t necessarily enjoy cooking, but seeing him scrape the bowl satisfies something in me. He’s feeling better because of me.
“Thank you.” He sets the spoon in the bowl and smiles at me.
I grin back and take the bowl to the kitchen. He’s impossible not to smile at. When I return to the room, he’s reclined against the headboard, looking cosy.
I stay in the doorway. “You can’t have more medicine for a while. Can I get you something else?”
“Pass me the remote?” he asks, pointing at the dressing table where the remote sits with pens scattered around it.
I hand it to him and perch on the other side of the bed, watching as he turns on the TV and clicks on Netflix.
“I’ll stay in the lounge, so I’m out of your way. Let me know if you need anything.” I stand, but a brush of his hand across my fingertips stops me from leaving.
“Will you watch TV with me?”