“In my jacket pocket.”
“I’ll get it. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go? You’re holding me prisoner.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget that.”
He chuckles, and I gather up his clothes, pausing to grab a dry-cleaning bag from the cupboard and making my way into the foyer. I rifle through his pockets and set his wallet and a paper bag with his painkillers on the console table. Then, I bundle the clothes in the bag, set them in the lift, and make the phone call to reception to do an emergency dry clean.
Once that’s done, I retrieve the things from the table. However, in my haste, I fumble them, and his wallet falls to the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet.
“Shit,” I mutter, kneeling to scoop up the coins and detritus that even Mac—Mister Tidy himself—has in his wallet. An item has rolled farther than the others, and I stretch to pick it up.
I take a sharp breath as I cradle it in my palm. It’s the little silver sunflower I bought him in Paris. I stare at it dazedly. Why is he still carrying this?
Something flares in my heart like a small firework of hope. Surely, this has to mean something. Mac doesn’t strike me as a sentimental man, so why is he carrying this around in his wallet, where you keep things that are precious?
I shake my head, pushing that dangerous thought away, but my fingers are shaky, and I put the sunflower back in his wallet as gently as possible.
Rising, I stride into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and then pause. Has he eaten today? I bet not. I open the cupboards, look at their contents, and nod. Some toast and green tea. That’ll be gentle on his stomach.
Ten minutes later, I tiptoe into the room. Mac is quiet, his lips drawn in pain. It looks like he hasn’t moved since I left. “Mac?” I whisper.
His eyes slide open. “Hmm?”
“Here’s your tablets.”
“Why are you carrying a tray? Are they heavy?”
“What? Oh no. I read the back of the packet, and you need to eat before you take this type of painkillers.”
“And you made me something?”
My eyes narrow at the wariness in his voice. “Yes, I did. Is there any reason for that concern?”
“I’m just thinking back to all the times I’ve insulted you.”
“That’s going to take a while. Why don’t you eat first?” I set the tray down and help him sit up against the pillows. It’s another sign of how bad he’s feeling that he lets me.
When he’s as comfortable as he can be, I set the tray on his lap. “Ta-dah.”
“Is that toast and butter?” he asks slowly.
“Yep.”
“And you made this?”
“You sound like you’re about to award me my first Michelin star. It’s hardly difficult.”
He takes the tablet I hand him and swallows it with gulps of water. Then he subsides against the pillows, closing his eyes wearily. His lashes look like black feathers on his pale cheeks, and the bruising is very dark now. “I’m not very hungry,” he mumbles.
“Try,” I say gently. His eyes slide open, and he looks a little woozy. “You’ll feel better if you do.”
“Promise.”
I blink. “Yes, of course.”
“Okay.”
