New York Billionaires Series

“Yeah. Sure.”

She’s gone again, and I look at the mug for a long time. I can’t remember the last time anyone did something for me. Something they weren’t paid for and that I didn’t ask them to do.

I drink the tea.

It’s late in the afternoon by the time I leave my home office, mug in hand. It helped, but only temporarily, and now my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.

I haven’t been sick in years.

I don’t allow my body to be sick.

Which, of course, means it’s doing it anyway. I wonder if this is punishment for mixing business and pleasure and giving in to Cecilia. Or maybe this is my body’s way of punishing me for not giving in with Cecilia over the past three days.Original from NôvelDrama.Org.

I know which one my head wants it to be. Both of them.

Familiar voices drift from the kitchen and I stop in the hallway, listening to them chatter. Once, my apartment was always dead quiet. Not anymore.

Cecilia and Bonnie sound comfortable with one another, voices muted and soft. My mother and grandmother used to talk like that. My brother and I would sit at the kitchen table at Grandma’s and listen to them chatter about everything and nothing as they cooked or baked.

They’re all gone now, and in nine months’ time, so will Cecilia be. My apartment will be quiet again.

I step into the kitchen. Cecilia’s eyes brighten when she sees me, and the expression sets off an ache in my chest. But her expression quickly turns to concern. “Oh, you look awful.”

“Hello to you too.”

“You sound even worse.” She steps around the kitchen island and puts a cool hand against my forehead. “You have a fever.”

She makes it sound like something I’ve done on purpose.

“I’m fine, Cecilia.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t fuss.”

She steps back, eyes narrowing. I imagine it’s the look she wore outside my office, warding off employees who wanted to speak to me for no particular reason. She was always good at that. My gatekeeper. “We’re having soup for dinner,” she says. “Should be good for your throat.”

Bonnie speaks up from the stove. “Chowder and freshly baked bread.”

“Christ, Bonnie,” I say, sinking down on the kitchen chair. My head feels ready to explode. “You’re worth every cent I pay you.”

There’s silence after my words, but I’m too tired to tell if it’s stunned or disapproving. Too tired to care, too.

Then a warm bowl appears in front of me and a giant glass of water. A small hand, one I recognize intimately now, places an aspirin next to it. Tea and now this.

We eat in silence, Cecilia and I. Her usual attempts at chatter are gone, and I don’t know whether I’m grateful or if I miss them.

After dinner, I make it halfway down the hall before her voice stops me. It has an unmistakable note of command in it.

“Where are you going?”

I reach out to steady myself against the wall. Consider lying, and then discard the idea. I’m the master in my own home. “To my office.”

“You need to rest. Lie down.”

“I can rest in the chair. It’s ergonomic.”

Cecilia snorts, and then she’s there, in front of me. Her hand presses against my chest. “Please rest. At least lie down for a bit. Please.”

Her eyes are impossibly close. Would she lie down with me?

There’s no way I can deny that offer, even if my body is at war with itself. Desire against the disease.

“I’ve decided,” I say. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

Her lips quirk. “Great choice. How about your couch? I’ve never seen you use it.”

“I use it.”

“Well, you haven’t in the past months.”

“I didn’t know you were keeping track.”

This time, the smile on her face is unmistakable. She’s laughing at me, but she doesn’t say a word as we head back into the living room.

I stretch out on the gray couch. It had been one of the few things I’d told the interior designer: The couch had to be comfortable. None of that look-good-but-feel-awful bullshit. He’d delivered.

A sigh of relief. It feels good to be lying down, and the pillow beneath my head is… well. Maybe I should try sleeping down here for a change. Might be better on nights when the bed holds nothing but nightmares.

“Isn’t this much nicer than working?”

I don’t open my eyes. “Don’t gloat.”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then water being poured. I crack open an eyelid to see her returning with a clean towel in hand. She leans over my face.

“Hey, I don’t-oh. Okay.” The towel feels ice-cold against my forehead. It’s delicious.

“I’ve put a big glass of water on the coffee table for you, too. Do you want anything else?”

“No.” After a brief silence, I crack open another eyelid. “Thanks.”

Cecilia smiles at me. “That was more than I ever got as your assistant.”

“Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you.”

She laughs, and then her slipper-muffled footsteps recede along the hardwood floor. She’s leaving.

“Hey,” I say. “Where are you going?”