Page 84 of The Lair

I’m expecting him to fight back like he’s been doing all day.

“Fine,” he grunts. “I might have a headache. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” I go up on my tiptoes and snatch his wool hat from over his head. “Come on, big grump. Go change. I’ll take care of dinner.”

Of coursehe argues. “You don’t have to. I can cook.”

I let out another tired sigh.

“You know you’re handsome, but—no offense—you look terrible right now. Seconds away from passing out due to exhaustion, if you need specifics.”

Travis’s eyebrows go up a millimeter. “You think I’m handsome?”

There’s a hint ofsomethingin his voice. Something I can’t pinpoint right away because I don’t hear it often from him. Is he flustered? The base of his neck looks redder, but it must be the fever.

I toy with his hat in my hands, his familiar smell drifting up to my nose. It’s intoxicating.

“Don’t change the subject,” I tell him, my own neck and cheeks feeling warmer than just a moment ago. And then, to make things worse for myself, I grab his arm and walk him out of the kitchen. “Go change and wait for me on the couch. I got this.”

He lets out a deep, I’m-about-to-argue breath. “Allie.”

“Please, Travis.” I turn to face him, my hand still around the rough fabric of his jacket. “Don’t fight me on this. You’re sick, and I want to take care of you. Who’s going to boss us around at The Lair if you’re sniffling and feeling miserable all day?”

I don’t think I’m imagining how his stare softens. And I’m surely not imagining how he grabs hishat from my hands and places it over my head.

“You’re something else, sweetheart.”

He disappears down the hallway before I can process what just happened.

Shaking my head, I head back to the kitchen and get started on my signature chicken soup. I can’t get so bent out of shapefrom a simple gesture he meant nothing by. I’m only clinging to a fantasy world in which Travis also feels this zapping electricity between us every time we’re close.

In an attempt to get it together, I start chopping ingredients on the cutting board. And when I hear the shower running, I only imagine Travis naked twice.

The soup is almost ready by the time his heavy footsteps make his presence known. I make a herculean effort not to glance at his sweatpants—Travis wearing them should be illegal—and notice he ditched one of his usual T-shirts for a hoodie. Headache,right.

“Smells great,” he comments as he grabs two bowls from one of the top cabinets I can’t reach and sets them on the counter. And I don’t say it, but I truly appreciate that he always compliments my cooking.

“This is almost ready,” I tell him. “Wait for me on the couch?”

When he doesn’t fight me, I know he must be feeling like hell.

“Did you take something for your headache?” I call out from the kitchen as I serve the soup moments later.

“Took a Tylenol before my shower,” he answers.

He’s leaning forward on the couch, legs open in a wide stance, the remote dangling from one of his hands. He’s put some sitcom on TV, and all I can think about is how unfair it is that he still looks this attractive while sick.

Careful not to burn myself with the hot ceramic, I grab one bowl of soup, set it on the coffee table in front of Travis, then go back to the kitchen for the other. I take my—his—hat off next, but only because the central heating is starting to make me sweat.

I give him a small smile as I sit next to him on the comfortable couch—seriously, I could fall asleep here every night—then feel how hopelessly my heart cartwheels when he smiles back.

“Are your taste buds working?” I ask him after he takes the first sip of his soup.

He arches a curious eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Your taste buds.” I wrap my hands around my bowl a little tighter, seeking its warmth. “When I’m sick, I always lose my sense of taste. It’s so annoying because all I want is to eat comfort food, but everything tastes like cardboard.”

His low chuckle travels directly to my lower stomach. “My taste buds are fine.”

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