He takes a bite and makes a surprised sound of pleasure. “That’s good.”
“I know. It’s the arsenic,” I say sweetly. He directs a look at me, and I grin. “Just a little sprinkle in memory of the time when you said I had the brain capacity of a fig biscuit.”
His lips twitch in amusement, but then he returns to the food, eating hungrily. After a bit, though, he slows and looksat me. “I can’t eat any more,” he says. I can hear the slur in his words, and his pupils are huge, so the tablets are obviously working. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I say gently. I take the tray from him, set it on the table, and then return to the bed. His eyes are closed, but they fly open when I say, “Can you sit up a bit?”
“Why?”
“I’ll turn your pillows over so they’re nice and cold and plumped up.” He struggles up, and I match my actions to my words. “There we go. Lie back.”
He obeys with a sigh of weariness. “Oh, thatisnice,” he says, sounding like a small child.
I can’t resist stroking his hair back from his tired face, and he watches me, blinking like a little owl. He’d hate to know how cute he looks.
“You’re good at this,” he slurs.
“Hair care?”
“No, looking after people.”
“Ah, I learned from the best. My mum was lovely when we were poorly.”
His blinks are getting longer and longer. “We?”
“Me and my brother.”
I settle down next to him, continuing to stroke his hair, feeling a wave of softness and warmth toward this complicated man. He believes in a life of isolation, but he’s just like everyone else when he’s sick. I feel proud that he came to me—proud and confused because if you’d asked me who he’d go to in times of need, I would’ve put myself at the bottom of his list. I wonder if there’s anyone else who cares for him.
As if sensing my question, he stirs. “My mother wasn’t terribly good at dealing with sickness.” I hold my breath, but he keeps talking. “But that’s hard to do if you can’t put down your vodka bottle.”
“What?” I can’t help my exclamation. I bite my lip, worried I’ve stopped his confession.
He pauses, and I wonder if he’s asleep, but then he keeps talking. “She wasn’t like your mother, Wes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad you had someone who was good to you. You deserve everything good.”
There’s a simple honesty in his voice that makes my heart squeeze, and I’m overwhelmed by tenderness, warmth, and sorrow for him. Obeying some deep instinct, I cup his face in my palm. My poor boy, I think. I lean in and kiss his sore lip gently, so gently he won’t feel it, but his eyes fly open.
His pupils are big, and his gaze bleary, but he stares at me in seeming wonder. “Why did you do that?” he whispers.
I smile, but it hurts my face. “Kissing it better.”
His eyes slide closed. “Maybe you are,” he mutters.
“Sorry?”
His breath evens out and I realise he’s fallen asleep with the suddenness of a child. I pull the covers over him, tucking him in carefully. Then I hover and daringly continue to stroke his hair. If he were awake, he would say something sarcastic and move away from me, but now he just snuggles closer and starts to snore softly.
I love you.
The thought is sudden and shockingly easy. From one heartbeat to the next I’m changed for life.
I hold my breath, examining the idea, but it holds no surprise because deep down, I think I’ve known it for a while. How could I not fall in love with him? He’s bossy and far too opinionated, but he’s also funny, clever, and the kindest man I’ve ever met. Kind in actions, not words, and I know actions are what counts. And he needs me even if he’d run the length of the world to avoid realising that.
“I love you.” I whisper the words daringly into the cool silence of the bedroom. They feel right on my lips as if they’re meant to be.
