Sam watched the play of emotions on Lia’s face. She wanted to ask him about his mother. He was sure of it. He hoped she resisted the impulse. He didn’t particularly want to discuss his private life with her—it wasn’t any of her business. She was meant to be a distraction, even if she didn’t quite know that yet, and nosing her way into his private affairs would make her more of a nuisance than a distraction.
“I have to remove this sleeve,” she finally said, her natural reserve kicking in, and Sam barely refrained from exhaling a relieved sigh. Instead he cast a rueful glance down at the ruined sleeve. He had packed mostly loose tank tops, which were easy enough to get into, but his mother had taken it upon herself to destroy several of his expensive dress shirts during one of her—as usual, ill-advised—acts of maternal concern. And because she’d been hovering and helping like a concerned mama bear during the packing process, Sam couldn’t bring himself to leave the mangled shirts behind.
He’d had no intention of ever wearing them, precisely because buttoning them up with his left hand was a tedious process and the useless split sleeve looked ridiculous. In typical Mimsy fashion, she hadn’t thought things through, but he had politely thanked her for her help rather than hurt her feelings by pointing out the flaws in her plan. Now he found himself silently thanking her for ruining some of his best shirts, because they suited his purpose.
Sam was turned on by how very turned on Lia had been. And try though she might, she couldn’t hide her reaction from him. The uneven breathing, the trembling fingers, the hectic flush in her cheeks—though Miss McGregor could dissemble as much as she wanted, Sam knew exactly how performing such an intimate task for him had affected her. But Sam was dangerously susceptible to falling prey to his own little game. If his response to the shirt thing was any indication, he would go stir-crazy with lust long before his cast came off.
“Something smells fantastic.” He forced a cheerful note into his hoarse voice, and it seemed to snap her back to the present.
“Yes. Yes, of course! Your breakfast. Please have a seat, I’ll just—just . . .” She paused and inhaled deeply, patting at her flushed cheeks again. “Uh, just get rid of this sleeve and feed you. I’ve left a lasagna in the fridge for lunch, and I’ll pop around with your dinner this evening.”
The flurry of words made him frown.
“You’re not staying?” he asked shortly, and her mouth snapped shut as she stared at him in surprise.
“No. Of course not. I have a lot of errands to run this morning.”
“Then what the fuck am I paying you for?” He was seriously aggravated that she’d just swan off and leave him on his own all day.
“Cooking, cleaning, doing some driving, and maybe helping you with some of the more difficult tasks. I do have a life, you know? I didn’t expect to have to stay here all day and wipe the sweat from your fevered brow,” she said tartly, and Sam bit back a smile at the show of defiance.
“What kind of errands?”
“Various errands,” she hedged. Why was she hedging? What did she have to hide?
“I’ll join you,” he decided.
“You’d be bored.”
“I’ll be bored here, too; I’d rather be bored with you than alone.”
“It’s not a good idea. You should rest.”
“I’ve rested enough. I’ll go crazy in this place by myself all day.”
“You should have thought of that before coming here.”
“That’s a very uncharitable sentiment, princess.”
“Fine, you can tag along”—as if he were a child—“but not one word of complaint when you find yourself bored out of your mind.”
“That’s the spirit,” he praised, and she glared at him. How adorable was that? The cutest little glare ever. It made him smile, which made her forehead wrinkle even more.
She shook her head, grumbling beneath her breath as she turned away to rummage through one of the drawers. She returned moments later, clutching a pair of kitchen shears.
“Sit down,” she commanded, and he meekly dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He was starting to like this bossy streak of hers. She made short work of the sleeve, and Sam tried not to wince when she tossed the remnants of his Dior into the garbage.
She bustled around a bit more before returning with a mug of coffee clutched in one hand and a plate in the other.
“It’s probably gone cold by now,” she said, and Sam straightened in anticipation, hoping whatever it was tasted as good as it smelled. He didn’t even care if it had cooled down. He was starving. She handed him the mug, which he accepted with a grateful smile, and carefully placed the plate in front of him, before turning away and picking up a small bowl and another plate from the counter next to the stove top. She positioned those on the table as well.