Page 88 of Forbidden Game

“You were barely responsive and scared the living daylights out of me, you know. You burned through cold compresses faster than I could make them, all while your whole body was shivering like it was freezing. It was worse than heatstroke.” Parker comes over and takes my mug from my hand and places it on my round dining table along with the food he’s cooked up. “I called up Reston, and he told me to put you in a cold shower and attempt to get you to drink water whenever you woke a little. It took a few hours for him to get here, but finally your fever broke. Honestly, he didn’t really do much. Useless expensive fuck.”

I vaguely remember the shower, I think. It’s kind of scary that I went through all that and my brain didn’t even record any of it. I didn’t think I was that bad. It was just a little cold…

“Wait a second. A shower? You saw me naked?” Mortification, rage, and something disturbingly close to lust combine in a confusing haze at the realization.

He holds his hands up in defense. “I swear I closed my eyes for like half of it.”

“Parker!” His name leaves my lips in a whine as I clutch my arms around my body.

I get it, I really do. But that doesn’t necessarily make the whole situation better. Mostly, I hate that my first thought is whether or not he liked what he saw.

I push my thoughts to the side and gesture at the periwinkle nightdress I’m sporting.

“That explains why I’m dressed in this.”

I bought it on a whim a few months ago when it went on sale but hadn’t worn it yet because the silk seemed too luxurious. Of course, Parker picked the most expensive nightwear I owned. I’m pretty sure I had it tucked in the back of my closet.

“I think you look hot.” Parker grins as he proceeds to scoop me up, blanket and all, before depositing me on one of the dining chairs. “Blue suits you.”

He slips a finger under one of the straps and runs it across the length. His touch sends goosebumps immediately down my arm. For a second it feels like someone is pressing hard on the center of my chest, and it becomes hard to breathe. But then he sits down, and the distance makes everything lighter again.

“Bon appétit, mademoiselle.” I don’t miss the glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes.

I clear my throat and eye the steaming bowl of soup topped with cilantro and the fluffy baguette slices in the center of the table.

“There’s no way you made this yourself.”

Parker barely remembers to eat the premade food their personal chef makes for them, let alone cook something from scratch for himself. The most I’ve ever seen him make successfully is beans on toast and two-minute ramen, both of which only require heating skills. And even then, he sometimes burns the toast.

“Depends on your definition of made.” He blows on the soup before eating a spoonful. “I heated everything to the exact temperature the chef told me.”

That made more sense.

“Chef?” I mimic the same motion, blowing on the steaming soup before tasting a spoonful.

The vegetable soup is like a warm hug. All the spices warm me the second I swallow. I scoop up some of the carrots floating around, and I get excited when I notice that there are even wood ear mushrooms. It is a silly thing to be excited about, but they are my favorite.

“Yeah, I ordered it from Le Forêt. It’s their seasonal mushroom elixir soup.”

“No way! I’ve been dying to go there. I stalk their page religiously.”

Le Forêt is a Michelin star vegan restaurant in New York that is known for the way they create dishes based on the health properties of each ingredient. Their menu changes every four months to accommodate for whatever vegetables are in season. They even have a quarterly event with an energy guru, and the waitlist is bonkers.

Wait.

“Le Forêt doesn’t have a restaurant in California, do they?”

There’s no way I would have missed that.

“No, they don’t.” He picks up a piece of bread and dunks it in his soup, taking a bite. I try not to get distracted by his sharp jawline and the vein that is sticking out on his neck.

“Then how did you get their soup?” I swallow another bite and stifle a groan at how good it tastes.

“I flew the sous-chef out. She cooked a couple of batches. There’s a few frozen in your freezer for the next couple of nights, plus more in the fridge for tomorrow. It should help you feel better and replenish the nutrients you sweated out.”

The piece of bread I’d been in the middle of grabbing promptly falls to the table.

“You flew the sous-chef of Le Forêt to California to cook me soup?”

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