Page 43 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
By the time I left O'Malley's, I'd made a decision. I would call Ivy, check on how she was feeling, maybe offer to bring her soup or medicine. It was a small gesture, but it would let her know I was thinking about her without being pushy or inappropriate.
She answered on the third ring, her voice hoarse and congested.
"Hello?"
"Ivy? It's Duncan. I heard you were sick."
"Duncan." She coughed, the sound rough and painful. "I'm sorry I didn't make it in today. I woke up feeling awful."
"Don't apologize. Are you feeling any better now?"
"Not really. My head feels stuffed with cotton, and I can't stop coughing."
She sounded miserable, completely drained. The protective instinct that had been simmering since last night flared into full intensity.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
"I had some toast this morning. Haven't been hungry since then."
"You need to eat something. And drink plenty of fluids."
"I know. I just don't have the energy to cook anything." She sniffled.
"What if I brought you some soup? There's a place near my house that makes excellent chicken noodle. It might help with the congestion."
Silence stretched between us. I could hear her breathing, could picture her weighing the offer against whatever concerns were holding her back.
"That's very sweet," she said finally. "But my father might not understand why my boss is delivering soup to his sick daughter."
"Then I'll explain that I was being neighborly. That it's what any decent person would do."
"Duncan…"
"Let me help, Ivy. Please. I feel useless sitting here knowing you're suffering."
Another pause. Another cough.
"Okay," she said quietly. "But maybe call before you come over? In case Dad is home?"
"Of course."
I drove to the soup place immediately after hanging up, ordered a large container of chicken noodle and some fresh bread rolls. The drive to Bill's house took twenty minutes through evening traffic. I'd been there countless times over the years for business dinners and social gatherings, but tonight felt different. Tonight I was crossing a line I'd sworn I wouldn't cross.
I called Ivy from the driveway. She answered immediately.
"I'm here," I said.
"Dad just left for the hospital. Mom's having a rough night, so he'll probably be there for hours. You can come to the front door."
I gathered the soup and bread, trying to calm my nerves. This was innocent—a friend helping another friend who was sick. Nothing inappropriate about it.
I was halfway up the front walk when the door opened and Bill emerged, keys in hand. He stopped short when he saw me, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion.
"Duncan. What are you doing here?"
I held up the bag containing the soup. "Ivy called in sick today. I thought I'd bring her some soup."
Bill's eyes narrowed. "You thought you'd bring soup. To my daughter— At my house?—"
