Page 58 of Cakes for the Grump
Luke deigns to give the half-filled vessel half a second of his attention.
“Come back to my place,” he demands.
“Why? Are you incapable of making your own smoothies?”
“Smoothies?Whatsmoothies? I don’t care about that. I have a private doctor on call. I’ll send for him to meet us at my place, and once we get you settled in there, he can continue monitoring you.”
The thought of being weak, vulnerable, not at home, and at the mercy of Luke’s doctor…
“No.” I slouch deeper into the bed and throw an arm over my face. To my surprise, Luke says nothing, and that only makes me more nervous and increasingly curious. Finally, I lift my arm and peek out from under it.
“Oh, just say it,” I tell him. “I can see you are itching to launch into a manner of different arguments, some of them likely bribes veiled as threats, and some of it outright bullying to get what you want. Don’t hold back on account of my condition.”
“Rita, don’t punish me by punishing you.”
“What? How would that even work?”
“It will.”
I wait for the punchline. And keep waiting. It doesn’t arrive.
“You are giving me that look of yours and it needs to stop,” I warn.
“What look?”
My pulse thuds unnaturally. “Like whatever is happening is a personal affront to the core of your being. And that you will direct all your focus—by which I mean all your manipulation and power—to correct this mistake. Stop looking at me like I’m all that matters right now. Because it would be very confusing if I didn’t recognize it as one of your usual psychological business strategies.”
He grits his teeth. “You are unwell, alone, and in a place like this.Whowouldn’t be bothered by that?”
“For the record, Iwillrecover after some more rest and?—”
It’s not like we’re even friendsis what I don’t say out loud. Even in my mind, something about that hurts. “Don’t stare. It’s rude,” I inform him, deflecting my thoughts.
“I’mstaringbecause your circumstances are unnecessarily tragic.”
The whiff of insult coming off his words makes me illogically more comfortable. That’s more like it. Him being concerned about me is more disturbing, I decide.
“And is it you,” I ask, “who is going to save me from my failing condition? How noble of you.”
“It’s not. It’s all about your smoothies. Come back and make them for me. I’ve become…addicted.”
“Because I slip in pharmaceuticals in them.”
“Good. Add as much as you like.”
“It’s to make you more agreeable.”
“And does it work?”
“Not really.”
We look at each other some more, and unless I’m mistaken, there is a twinkle of something deeper than amusement in his gaze. Perhaps a speck that becomes consumed and lost after he lifts his eyes to stare at my forehead again. It must be accursedly pale or momentously flushed or screaming at him some signs of my sickness for he stiffens. “Rita, you?—”
I have no idea what he is about to say because Janice Dorian pops her head into the room.
No. Not her. Not now.
Sludge crawls into my stomach.
