Page 49 of The Icing on the Cake
“No,” I say, suddenly feeling like an idiot for showing up without at least asking if he wanted me here. “I’ve decided to stay the night…in case you need anything.”
His eyebrows rise. “Here?”
“On your couch,” I clarify quickly, clearing my throat. “While you sleep in your bedroom. But I’m only doing it to make sure you don’t die in your sleep or something equally concerning. I know you hockey players like to think you’re invincible, but you’re not.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he says.
“I know I don’t have to. But…I want to. After Mom’s surgery, I didn’t realize how bad things were until it was too late. I don’t ever want to make that mistake again.”
“I’m sorry, Neesha. That must’ve been?—”
“Yeah, it was. And I realize you’re not her. But I’d rather sit up all night at your house than wonder if I could’ve done more. Mom always said there was something healing about having someone close, about not letting people suffer alone.”
He nods silently, taking this all in before he steps aside. I brush past him, trying not to notice his bruised ribs, since he still hasn’t put a shirt on.
“Did you eat?” I ask, heading straight for the kitchen.
“When you knocked, I was trying to decide if I wanted to make the effort to get off the couch and warm something up.”
“And you didn’t text me?” I shake my head, handing him some frozen green beans. “Put this on your ribs. I’ll heat up the soup.”
He settles onto a stool, using the beans as an ice pack as I warm up soup in his microwave. I feel his eyes on me, silently watching my every move. It’s unnerving how comfortable this feels, being in his space, taking care of him, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“You know,” he says, “this is not how I imagined you back in my house tonight.”
“Oh? And how did you imagine it?” I ask, stirring the soup.
“Less cooking and more of you playing nurse.”
I nearly drop the spoon in my hand. Soup splatters across the counter.
“Sorry.” He smirks, though his expression is anything but apologetic. “Only for practice, of course.”
“Your pain is making you delusional.” I set the bowl in front of him, along with some crackers I found in his pantry. As he eats, I arrange my pillow and blanket on the couch.
“You really don’t have to stay,” he says as he polishes off the soup. “I could text you if I need help.”
I rest my hands on my hips. “And if you drop your phone? Or fall? There are too many variables.”
He shakes his head. “I think you’ve watched too many episodes ofER.”
“Probably.” I shrug. “But I also know that you were considering starving, rather than getting off the couch. So I think it’s clear who needs help.”
“Do I really look like I’m starving?” He points to the muscles that flex slightly every time he moves. “I can survive for a night.”
I glance away, trying to avoid seeing him as anything more than a neighbor. “I know, but I want to make sure you’re okay. As your neighbor…and friend.”
Our eyes catch for a moment and my stomach flips. I can’thelp the way my body reacts whenever he holds my gaze—like a little popper shooting confetti inside me.
“You should probably go to bed,” I say, noticing the dark circles under his eyes.
“You’re right.” He heads to his bedroom, where I already know Henry has taken up residence on his duvet. While he gets ready in the bathroom, I clean up the kitchen and leave two painkillers and a glass of water on his nightstand in case he wakes up in the middle of the night. When he comes out, he moves to the bed, wincing with each step before he lowers himself down with a sharp intake of breath.
“Can I help? Or get you anything?” I ask, suddenly feeling useless to make him feel better.
“No,” he says, his face softening when he looks up at me from the bed. When I turn to go, he catches my hand. “Thank you, Neesha. For everything.” He looks sleepy and handsome, and it takes all my willpower not to brush away that stray wisp of hair that’s fallen over his forehead.
“That’s what neighbors are for, right?”
