Page 45 of Doctor Bossy

He’d poised one hand to knock, with a flask in another hand, along with several brown bags. He glanced down at me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the grocery store,” I responded distractedly. “What…what are you doing here?”

“Marco mentioned that you weren’t feeling well,” he said, and something strange flashed in his expression. “So I came to make sure that you were okay.”

I noted what it was then after he made the statement. It was the same expression he had yesterday when he apologized for the incident, as though he was guilty about what we had done. Or perhaps he was. He probably still thought he had violated me in some way, and that was why I was avoiding work.

Silly man,I thought with a shake of the head.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I think I have some kind of bug, but I already took some antibiotics, so I should be okay by afternoon.”

He frowned. “Antibiotics are the wrong thing to take if you have a cold. Why didn’t you go see a doctor?”

"I can’t exactly afford one,” I blurted out and then wished I could take it back. I didn’t need to be revealing my financial status to people. It always made them see me differently or make it seem as though I was asking for a handout.

But Griffin’s expression didn’t change. He merely shook his head, took a few steps, and said, “Get back in bed. I have groceries.”

And then, he proceeded to walk into my house and head toward my kitchen. I watched in shock as he began pulling out pans, a chopping board, and a knife before rolling up his sleeves and pulling out vegetables and fruits from the bag. I had never seen a man cook before, especially one this compelling, and I have to say there was something to be said about how sexy it is.

He spared me a look. “Are you going to just keep standing there?”

“No, sir.” The response was automatic as I took a seat. I then proceeded to continue to watch him. He moved with a meticulous masculine grace that was difficult to describe, his large body seeming very controlled as he chopped and grated the onions. Before long, pleasant smells of ginger and garlic filled the air as he stirred chicken broth in the pot.

He came over to where I sat and brought a spoon to my mouth. “Taste.”

So I did. The flavors burst in my mouth, and I moaned. He smiled. “That good?”

“Yup,” was all I said even though everything inside me was weeping with gratitude. It was the first time anyone had ever cooked for me.

My heart shook.Don’t fall in love,I reminded myself.

Thatwas one rule that would be so easy to break.

20

GRIFFIN

Becca was proving to be a very difficult patient.

She seemed to be trying her best not to sit and just rest. Though I could see the visible effort it took, she stubbornly insisted on doing everything by herself, from getting water from the fridge to grabbing her cell phone from her bedroom. She also repeatedly tried to assist me in making her soup, even though she looked like she was going to keel over every time she stood. And then, when I began prepping the ingredients for dinner afterward, she frowned deeply, insisting it wasn’t necessary.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’ve seen your fridge. It is entirely necessary.”

That shut her up for a few minutes, but it didn’t keep her down for long.

The second time she came over to peep over my shoulder, I gave her a stern look. “Go sit.”

She pouted at me. “But I’m feeling much better now, and I’m getting bored just sitting by myself.” She peered into the concoction on the stove. “What are you making? Casserole?”

“No.” I glanced toward the dining table to see the bowl of soup I had made her. It was empty. I couldn’t help but smile. I was glad she enjoyed the meal, and she certainly showed her appreciation, practically moaning as she inhaled the entire bowl. I wasn’t much of a cook with most things, but Heather had always complimented my soups, saying that I made them perfectly all the time. It always seemed to make her feel better when she was ill. I hadn’t had much of an opportunity to make it after she passed. James didn’t like my cooking much, usually preferring Arnold’s. I hadn’t had time to make him meals anyway, but now I recognized how much I missed it.

“I’m making tomato sauce,” I told her. “And you need to sit down before you pass out.” While she wasn’t quite as pale as she had looked when I got here, she still didn’t look good. Her eyes were red and watery, with dark eye circles sitting underneath. The fine sheen of sweat on her brow showed the effort it took for her to move around as much as she did.

Still, she managed to shoot me a smile as she deferred to the request, slipping into one of the stools on the kitchen island.

“How did you learn to cook like that?” she asked, putting her head into her hand and staring up at me. With her face at that angle and her eyes wide and inquisitive, she looked a little like a curious elf.

“It wasn’t really difficult, so to speak,” I said. “Cooking is merely chemistry. I followed the instructions, and over the years, I picked up a few tweaks here and there to make the food taste even better.”

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