Walk of Shame (Love Unexpectedly 4)

When I finally hear his bedroom door open, it’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m standing at his stove with a wooden spoon in one hand, a glass of buttery Chardonnay in the other.

He shuffles into the kitchen and then freezes when he sees me.

Oh my heart. Rumpled, sleepy Andrew Mulroney is…well, he’ll kill me for thinking this, but he’s sort of adorable.

His eyes are sleepy, his hair’s even messier than it was this morning, and he looks like he wants to rub his eyes and see if I’m really there.

I give a little wave with the spoon before I resume stirring the soup. “Morning, sunshine.” I take a sip of the wine.

He blinks. Blinks again.

Then without a word, he turns and walks into the bathroom, muttering something that sounds like shower.

A moment later I hear the sound of water running, and I go back to my wine. Now that he’s up, I turn on some music on my phone, opting for Norah Jones’s old-school debut album, because really, nobody can complain about that goodness.

I’m pouring myself a second glass of wine when I hear the water shut off.

When Andrew appears a few minutes later he still doesn’t look like himself, but at least death doesn’t seem to be knocking on his door anymore.

His hair’s damp, making it look darker than it usually does, but already it’s starting to curl a little. He’s wearing another pair of gray sweatpants, the loose cotton kind, not the ones he wears to the gym, and a formfitting white T-shirt that strains a little bit over his chest, as though he usually wears it under something. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if this guy didn’t have an arsenal of comfy shirts like regular people, and had to settle for an undershirt. It beats the holiday sweater.

“You didn’t shave,” I say as he lowers himself to the bar stool at his kitchen counter.

“Too tired,” he mutters.

I lean back against the counter opposite from him and cross my legs at the ankles.

“I sort of like the stubble,” I say. “It makes you look friendlier.”

He glances up and meets my gaze, as though looking for sarcasm, before his eyes narrow on the glass. “I know that’s my glass. Is it also my wine?”

“Yes, and it’s delicious,” I say with a smile. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m not sure,” he says tentatively, as though he really doesn’t know.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Andrew rubs his palm over his stubbly cheek. “Monday?”

Monday. As in the day he kissed me.

As in the day on which Page Six pronounced us the city’s new “It Couple.”

I don’t go there. Not yet. For all I know, he got sick before hearing the “news.”

I’ve already snooped through all of his cabinets, so I know exactly where he keeps his bowls, and I pull one down before ladling some soup into it.

“A few bites,” I say, setting it and a spoon and napkin in front of him. “Even if your appetite’s off, you need something so you don’t get shaky.”

He stares down at the steaming bowl. “What is this?”

“A cheeseburger.”

He looks up, and I roll my eyes. “It’s soup, Andy. Chicken noodle. Homemade. Eat it.”

He slowly picks up his spoon and studies me. “I don’t know what’s more surprising—that you shopped or that you cooked.”

“Only half right,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows, regretting a little bit that this particular V-neck shows off my cleavage in quite the perky fashion, and that he’s too sick to notice.