Protect Me Not ((Un)Professionally Yours 2)

“Ty?” She rubbed her neck, and stared at his out-of-focus form incredulously. What was he still doing here?

“Your head was at an awkward angle for nearly two hours. I tried to slide a pillow under it, but you swatted my hand away. You’re cranky when you’re tired. Your glasses are on the coffee table, by the way.”

She put them on, then blinked at him in bewilderment. “What are you wearing? What are you doing? Why are you here?”

“Jeans. Cooking dinner. Because you seemed ill,” he itemized, grinding some pepper into a saucepan that was bubbling away on the stovetop. It was the delicious garlicky aroma that had awoken her, she realized now. Her empty stomach had kicked her bum into wakefulness because it didn’t take kindly to being deprived.

“I don’t understand. Are you working right now?” How could he be? She was safely at home.

He smiled and walked toward her. She was confused, groggy, and pretty sure that her hair was a mess. She also suspected that she had a trail of dried drool streaked across her cheek. A surreptitious touch to her face confirmed that suspicion.

Well, he definitely wasn’t dressed for work. She had seen the man naked; she’d seen him in beautifully tailored, expensive suits, but aside from that one time on his birthday—when she’d been too pissed off to fully appreciate it—she had never seen him in jeans. Or a t-shirt. The jeans—faded at the seams and frayed at the hems—clung to him like a second skin. And the gray t-shirt lovingly showcased his broad shoulders, and beautiful chest. It was short-sleeved, which meant that she could fully appreciate his beautiful arms.

He was barefoot. His long toes with their neatly trimmed nails, dug into the plush pile of the fake fur rug that Hugh had insisted was a must-have for the living room.

He tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, the gesture opening up that big muscly chest and bulging his biceps.

Her throat went dry, and she reminded herself that he was off limits tonight and for the next three nights.

“I’m not working.” He peered at her closely. “How do you feel, honey?”

“The headache’s not gone. But it’s better than it was before. A shower and some food will help.”

“You grab that shower, I’ll finish dinner.”

“You’re always cooking for me.” She pushed to her feet and swayed as she fought to find her balance.

“Whoa, now,” he cautioned, taking hold of her arms to steady her. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she blushed. “I sometimes get a bit woozy when I have my period. Especially if I don’t eat properly. I was so busy and stressed today, I only had half a sandwich for lunch. Silly of me.”

He reluctantly released her arms, as if he were afraid she would fall if he let go too quickly. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“I know.” She smothered a yawn. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Take your time,” he muttered.

She impulsively went onto her toes and popped a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you, Ty. For doing this.”

He looked uncomfortable, but acknowledged her thanks with a quick shrug.

Ty watched her leave.

He liked the way she walked. Even when she was tired, she always had a skip in her step. It was as if she was physically incapable of being unhappy for too long. Her natural bubbliness always appeared to reassert itself in her body, sometimes even before her mind seemed ready to move on.

He shouldn’t have come back. But the thought of her here alone—possibly ill—hadn’t sat well with him.

And yeah, maybe another part of him had disliked the thought of not seeing her again tonight. He had grown used to having her around in the evenings. He was uncomfortable with the idea of breaking so many of his own rules right now, but he was also weirdly okay with it. It wasn’t like he intended to make a habit of doing stuff like this.

These were extenuating circumstances.

He returned to the kitchen to check on his pasta sauce. He wasn’t the world’s most adventurous cook, but he could whip up a mean spaghetti bolognaise.

He kept himself busy, trying very hard not to imagine Vicki, naked in a steamy shower, lathering herself up beneath a stream of hot water. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t once considered making lo—having sex—with her in the shower. What the hell was wrong with him? It was a wasted opportunity that he intended to rectify as soon as he got the chance.

He was putting the finishing touches on the salad when he heard her soft footfall on the staircase. He looked up and found himself grinning like an idiot at the sight of her.

Her hair, still damp from the shower, was a riot of corkscrew curls, and she was wearing the most adorable fleecy rainbow-colored onesie, with white fuzzy unicorn slippers on her feet.