Page 19 of His to Possess
Me:Thanks for letting me crash here last night. I really need to get home though. Can we talk later today?
My phone rings mere seconds after I hit send, Philip’s name flashing across the screen. I sigh, and accept the call.
“I don’t want you leaving the building,” he says.
“Good morning to you, too,” I grouse.
There’s a beat of silence and then his voice lowers. “I already said good morning,” he murmurs in that seductively soft voice that sends goosebumps right down my arms. “I came in before I left. You looked quite adorable all curled up in bed. Do you know you snore?”
“I don’t snore!” I cry, and he chuckles.
“You do. It’s very cute.”
“Philip—”
“You’re not leaving, Lilah,” he says, voice immediately shifting back to the clipped, bossy tone he usually uses. “We need to talk and I don’t want you out in the city alone.”
“But I need—”
“I’m having clothes sent over. They should be there in a few minutes, in fact. If you still want to go back to your apartment later, I’ll take you.”
I open my mouth to argue that he’s being silly, but his voice drops again as he continues. “In the meantime, you should relax. Perhaps take a nice warm shower?”
Heat erupts on my cheeks at the blatant reminder of what I saw last night. I duck my head, even though he can’t see me, my mouth opening and closing several times, as words refuse to form.
He chuckles softly. “Have an enjoyable morning, Lilah.” And then he’s hung up, leaving me sitting there on the bed gaping like a fish at the now silent phone.
* * *
Okay,so Mrs. Higgins is the most amazing cook in the world and after a few minutes sitting with her at the kitchen island, I kind of wish she could be my grandmother. The house I grew up in always had staff, but my parents preferred to keep things very professional. Or cold, depending how you looked at it. I was never allowed to sit and talk with one of the help. If the people my parents employed were anything like Mrs. Higgins, I had definitely missed out.
After she feeds me breakfast, I take a shower and get dressed in the clothes that Philip had dropped off for me. The jeans and t-shirt fit me perfectly and I try not to think too hard about how he knew my sizes—particularly my bra size. I debate watching TV while I wait for Philip, or maybe finding a book in his office, but when I pass by the kitchen I’m hit straight in the face with the most wonderful sugar-sweet smell. I find Mrs. Higgins baking cookies and she insists I sit down and keep her company.
I don’t mind in the slightest. She’s kind and soothing with a maternal air I didn’t even realize I was missing. It’s been so long since anyone fussed over me, and even longer since someone baked me cookies—probably since my own grandmother died when I was ten. Sitting there chatting with Philip’s housekeeper is the nicest time I’ve had in ages.
And man, can Mrs. Higgins chat. I guess because she’s English I assumed she’d be all prim and proper but instead she has me giggling over stories about how her now-deceased husband could be convinced to do anything she wanted when she baked for him. Her waggling eyebrows tell me some of the things she talked him into weren’t exactly family friendly. Then she tells me how she worked with Philip’s mother in England for years. She even knew him when he was a boy, but she shuts her mouth firmly when I try to press her for information about what he was like. Apparently, she’s too professional to go spilling all his secrets. Boo.
She does tell me about her own kids, and how Philip’s family made sure they both had access to the best schools. Now her daughter works in finance in Shanghai and her son is a software developer on the West Coast. Since they stole her grandchildren away from England—her words—she followed Philip here to work for him. “I could have retired after my Thomas died, but I’ve never been one for sitting around.”
The best part about Mrs. Higgins is that she doesn’t press for any information about me. She asks after my family and apparently picks up on how little I want to talk about it by my reply that everyone is busy and we don’t speak much. I do show her a picture of Christopher on my phone. It’s the two of us from Christmas several years ago, before everything started to go to hell. Christopher had already been diagnosed by then, but his eyes are bright and happy, body much stronger than it is today.
“This looks cozy,” a familiar, crisp voice says and I look up to see Philip leaning casually against the doorway. Fire rushes to my cheeks immediately. He looks so good standing there in his perfectly fitted three-piece suit. His dark blonde hair looks windblown, like he’s been walking outside, and the slightly disheveled air, compared to how sleek and proper he usually is, has my heart pounding.
There’s also the fact that the last time I saw him he was coming all over the shower door.
Shit. My cheeks flush even darker and I have to duck my head. I definitely don’t want to be thinking aboutthatwhen sitting next to Mrs. Higgins.
But of course Philip can’t just let it go. Because that would be way too easy. “You okay, Lilah?” he asks, voice dripping with mock concern. “You look a little flushed, love. Are you unwell?”
I lift my head enough to glare at him and sure enough, he has a big broad smirk on his face and his eyes are twinkling with mischief. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I was just telling Mrs. Higgins how we ran into each other last night.” Ha! I want to throw my arms up in victory when a look of horror flashes across his face.
“Quite a coincidence,” Mrs. Higgins agrees. “To run into each other in a theater after all these years.”
“Uh, yes,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. Oh my lord, is heblushing?Surely Philip Matthews has never blushed over anything in his life. “It was quite a stroke of luck.”
Our eyes meet, his widening slightly when he realizes what he said—stroke—and suddenly we’re both cracking up. I laugh harder than I have in ages, bent over the counter because I can’t even sit up straight. Philip is just as amused, his big broad hands covering his face.
