“Are you sure?” She looks toward Madeline’s room.
“I’m going to give her some meds. She’ll probably sleep for a while.”
“I . . . Okay,” she agrees.
My body relaxes. I dig through the bags and find the Tylenol. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
I head to Maddi’s room. I checked her temp after Courtney left earlier, and it was 100.2—high but not too high. Still, I know the medicine will help. I wake Maddi enough for her to take a dose and then wait until she’s sleeping again before I leave her room. I leave her door cracked so I can hear her if she gets sick or wakes up. Then I head toward the kitchen area, taking off my tie and rolling up my shirtsleeves as I walk.
Courtney is in the kitchen, unbagging the items she picked up, when I make it around the peninsula that separates the kitchen from the living room.
“I think I might have gone overboard,” she says, looking at the ten cans of soup stacked on the counter. Seeing the look on her face, I start to laugh again. “In my defense, I really didn’t know what to get.”
I laugh harder, and she starts to laugh with me.
“It’s fine. Maddi loves soup. Plus, I think canned goods have a long shelf life, so they will keep for a while.”
“Right . . . ,” she mumbles.
I smile. I pull out the cheese and mayo for the grilled cheese from the fridge and grab a loaf of bread from the counter.
“Mayo?” she asks incredulously.
I answer without stopping what I’m doing. “Have you had grilled cheese with mayo?”
“Um . . . no. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“My mom always used mayo instead of butter. It makes the bread more crisp and adds a little flavor.”
“Hmm.” I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not convinced.
“Trust me. You’re going to love it,” I say, then look at her feet when I see her shift in her heels. “Take off your shoes, baby.”
Her eyes meet mine when I say the word baby. Her expression changes, and something sweet fills her eyes. “I . . .”
“Floors are clean. Take off your heels.”
“All right.”
I watch her ass as she walks to the edge of the kitchen and kicks off her heels.
When she comes back, I realize how much shorter she is without the added height. “How tall are you?”
“Around five one.” She tilts her head to the side. “Why?”
“You’re tiny,” I state. She is tiny, compared to me.
Laughing, she shakes her head. “I think you’re the only man who’s ever called me tiny.”
“You are tiny. I’m six two, more than a foot taller than you.”
“I’m also a size fourteen. I’m not small by today’s standards.”
My eyes drift down her frame. I look into her eyes. “You’re perfect.” And she is. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman who looks like a woman, with curves and a softness that you can explore with your hands and mouth, then sink into without worry of getting cut on protruding bones and sharp edges.
“Thanks.” Her cheeks once again get pink, and she looks away.
Smiling to myself, I get out a frying pan and small saucepan and set them both on the stove. Then I open a can of tomato soup and dump it into the pot before adding cream to it.
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Just relax.” I turn up the burners on the stove, then move to the fridge.
“We have apple juice, Sunny Delight, and Kool-Aid. What’s your poison?” I look at her over the top of the open fridge door.
“What kind of Kool-Aid?”
“Cherry.”
“I’ll have a glass of that.”
Her answer intrigues me once again. Courtney is all class, from the tips of her red-painted nails to the matching polish on her painted toes. I can’t imagine her ever drinking Kool-Aid—at least not willingly.
“You got it.” I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it before handing it to her. She takes a sip, then her eyes close in what looks like bliss. “Good?”
“Yeah.” She opens her eyes, and they meet mine. “I haven’t had Kool-Aid in years, but it’s still as good as I remember. Maybe even better now.”
“Good.” I smile at her, and she smiles back before I return to the stove.
“You didn’t lie,” Courtney says after I’ve finished making our plates and we are both sitting down at the island eating.
I glance over at her with my half-eaten sandwich in hand.
“This is the best grilled cheese I have ever eaten in my life.”
“If you think that’s good, you should try my Hamburger Helper. It’s life-changing.” She laughs, picking up her half-full glass of Kool-Aid. “Can you cook?”
“I can. Well . . . kind of.”
“Kind of?” I raise a brow in question.
“I can follow a recipe.”