Page 45 of Renegade Rift
“Thank you.” He grabs one, fills it, and brings it to me. “Then I’m going to make you some food.”
I raise a brow. We both know he is liable to burn whatever he tries to cook.
“Okay, I’m going to order us some food.”
My stomach rumbles right on cue. “Can we get the chicken soup from the Mexican restaurant up the street? It’s my favorite comfort food, but they don’t deliver, and there’s no way I’d be able to make it the two blocks to pick it up.”
Ford smiles and nods like I just trusted him with the nuclear codes. “You got it.”
He places our order and heads out to pick up our food, leaving me to shimmy back under the covers and take another power nap.
When he returns, he’s hefting a canvas tote and begins unloading our food. It becomes clear that the tote is the twin to the one Mary Poppins uses when he keeps pulling out more and more items.
A heating pad.
Chocolate bars of every variety.
Pints of ice cream for each of us—dairy free for me.
Ibuprofen.
Midol.
Ice packs.
Every supplement ever associated with helping Hashimoto’s symptoms.
Bottles of water with electrolytes.
“You got the kitchen sink in there too?” I tease.
“I may have gone overboard.” A light pink hue tinges his cheeks, and he looks away almost bashfully. “I just wanted to help.”
I swear this man was a golden retriever in another life. Or maybe whatever kind of dog Lassie was.
“You did great,” I murmur as I bring a spoonful of soup to my mouth in an attempt to distract myself from the emotions clawing away at my chest. A soft moan escapes my lips, and I shut my eyes, savoring the complex flavors and the way it warms me from the inside out. “Thank you. This is exactly what I wanted.”
Ford's smile is all teeth and reveals his usually hidden dimple. “You’re welcome.”
He puts all the groceries away and sets me up with the heating pad before joining me on the bed with his takeout.
“How often does this happen?” he asks between bites.
I shrug. “Not every month, but I haven’t been able to find any pattern as to why it happens some and not others. Sometimes it’s stress induced. And then there’s the obvious times when I accidentally eat something with gluten.”
“I can’t even imagine.” He sets his spoon down in his rice and looks up. “Will you call me next time it happens?”
I swallow hard and look away. “I would’ve called you today if my phone wasn’t on the other side of the apartment.”
“Which won’t be a problem when the nightstand I ordered for the side of the bed gets here, complete with its own charging station for your phone.”
An exasperated sigh escapes me. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” He lifts his hand, as if that’s going to stop my incoming protest. “And don’t you even try to tell me I shouldn’t have.”
“But—”
“Family, Juliet.”
