She could also hear someone snoring. Not a loud chainsaw of a noise, nor a soft wuffle like her childhood dog used to make, but somewhere in between. For a brief, disorienting moment, she thought it might be Andrew. Who else would be sleeping by her?
Then she remembered the affair, subsequent divorce, and her current near overwhelming desire to staple his bollocks to his front porch. So no, it wouldn’t be Andrew.
Sophie cracked open her eyes. Mike lay curled on the bed next to her on top of the covers, fully clothed. He was facing her, his head on the pillow. His hair was tousled, his lashes lying in a dark crescent against his skin. She noted with some amusement that even in his sleep, he seemed concerned, a small divot appearing between his brows, and his stubble had gone far past the five o’clock mark, leaning heavily towards the wee hours of the morning.
He looked tired but handsome and Sophie wondered why on earth he was in her bed.
After a few seconds of her staring at him, Mike seemed to sense her attention and blinked open his eyes. He stared back at her for a moment, his expression muzzy, before his gaze cleared.
‘How are you feeling?’ The question came out gravelly, sleep-sanded and rough.
And she liked it. She liked hearing him like this and knowing that not everyone got to hear the way he sounded first thing in the morning. Then she remembered he’d asked her a question. ‘Like death warmed up, left out, warmed up again, frozen, and then tossed in the bin.’
One corner of his lip curled up. ‘A little better then.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because I got a full sentence that time instead of a monosyllable.’ He reached out and touched her forehead, concern pinching his features. ‘Not entirely cool, but you’re not as warm as you were. Sit up and I’ll take your temperature.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’re due another dose of medicine, too.’
She levered herself up, surprised at how weak and shaky her arms felt. Mike rolled off the bed, bringing her two pills and the thermometer, which he placed in her mouth. When it beeped, he traded it for the pills and water.
He read the digital screen, a slight frown on his face. ‘Still a little over a hundred.’ He eyed her, assessing. ‘Do you feel up to some soup? Or tea? I got you some more camomile. I can put some honey and lemon in it, which will make your throat feel better.’
‘You missed your calling,’ Sophie said, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. ‘You should have been a nurse.’
‘I would make a terrible nurse. People would probably die.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second. You’re too efficient.’
Mike set the thermometer on the bedside table. ‘Perhaps, but I also lack patience with most humans, and I find thatto be something nurses need a great deal of. What’s it to be first – tea or soup?’
‘Tea, please.’ Sophie watched Mike walk to the door, because even in wrinkled suit trousers, he still had an incredible arse. Quite possibly the world’s greatest.
He turned at the threshold and caught her watching him. A slow grin unfurled on his face. ‘Lemon and honey acceptable?’
Sophie refused to feel embarrassed about being caught out, so she just nodded and closed her eyes to rest until he came back.
Mike brought her tea, and as soon as she’d drunk some of that down, he brought her a bowl of soup.
She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating the chicken soup he’d brought her, she felt suddenly ravenous. She polished it off quickly, listening as Mike moved around the kitchen with a quiet symphony of cabinet doors and cutlery. When he returned, she was holding the empty bowl in her hands, not quite sure what to do with it.
For some reason, Mike seemed amused by this. ‘Would you like more?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘Not yet. I was just thinking about the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had breakfast – or I guess dinner? – in bed.’
Mike took her bowl from her. ‘To be honest, I’ve never much cared for it. I always seem to get crumbs in the sheets or spill something, or I get so nervous about doing those things that there’s no joy in it.’
‘I hate it when I do that – kill my own joy.’ Sophie pulled the blankets up higher, though she stayed sitting up. ‘Well, it was very good soup, and I don’t think I spilled any. Did you get it at the shop?’
Mike shook his head. ‘I made it.’
Sophie blinked at him. ‘You made it?’
Her question seemed to amuse him, earning her a faint smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly drawing out the word. He waved a hand at her. ‘Why the face? Because that’s a very sceptical face.’
‘I guess I’m just surprised.’
‘That I made soup, or that I madeyousoup?’ Mike asked.
