Page 46 of Doctor Bossy

“Not difficult?” She raised an eyebrow. “I guess we have different definitions for that word. Because I can mix two reagents with absolute precision, but when it comes to cooking, I simply don’t have a clue. It always comes out tasting like something that was never meant to exist in this world.”

I chuckled a little at that and stirred the tomato sauce before adding a dash of salt. “Sometimes it takes time and patience to figure out exactly what you’re doing wrong. Could be that the heat is up too high, or you’re not giving the flavors enough time to blend, or maybe you need to marinate the meat a little more.” Or sometimes, it was a combination of things that made it all fall apart. “But figuring out what’s wrong is half the fun, isn’t it?”

“Mm, I’ll take your word for it,” she muttered, and then before I knew it, she slipped out of her stool again.

“Becca.” She stopped in her tracks at my tone, turning to give me an innocent glance. Nevertheless, the quirk at the corner of her lip told me that she knew exactly what she was doing.“Sit,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, I’m just going to grab water from the fridge.”

I shook my head at her, then moved toward the fridge to take the bottle of water. I frowned again at how sparse her fridge was. She barely had anything inside, not even leftovers. It was no wonder she was so slender, although I didn’t think it was an intentional consequence.

I can’t afford it, she had said about the doctor. Not for the first time, I wondered what else she couldn’t afford. What about her family? She never mentioned them, and she gave the impression that she’d paid for college entirely by herself, using scholarships and work. She didn’t have anyone taking care of her? Had sheeverhad someone take care of her?

Perhaps that was why she was so resistant to it right now, I mused.She simply wasn’t used to it.

I straightened and turned around to find her still standing up. At this point, I wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness or if she carried a mischievous streak that kept her pushing at me.

Or maybe she simply wanted to see what I would do.

I walked over and handed her the water bottle, but I didn’t let go when she took it. Instead, I used it to drag her body forwards, watching her eyes widen as our faces ended up breaths apart.

“If I have to ask you to plant that butt of yours in a chair again,” I told her, “I’ll spank it till you aren’t able to move for a month. Okay?”

She swallowed, and her eyes flared.

I got the sense that she wasn’t as opposed to the idea as much as she was aroused by it, especially given the huskiness of her voice when she replied, “Yes, sir.”

Damn.I needed to get myself under control because she was in no state for the thoughts running through my head.

The rest of the night passed easily, with entertaining conversation and food. I peppered her with questions about her childhood, and she answered them as cagily as possible. Even though she didn’t come outright and say it, from what I could piece together, her parents either weren’t in the picture or were completely incompetent. No one had really been there for her throughout her life.

It doesn’t matter.The thought slipped through determinedly.Because I’m here now.

When it finally came time to leave, I found I didn’t want to, and that, more than anything, pushed me out of the door.

* * *

Once I got home,I was met with silence. Arnold had likely already gone to bed since it was nearly midnight, and James hadn’t been here since our argument. Usually, I liked the solitude, but coming from the brightness, buzz, and chatter of Becca’s home, the manor seemed so stark and lonely in comparison.

I wanted to go back.

I hadn’t wanted to leave her home in the first place, but I knew I needed to. While I liked Becca’s company—an understatement of the century—I didn’t want it to become something I looked forward to or something I needed every day. I didn’t want to get too used to her. That would tread too close to ‘relationship’ territory, and I couldn’t do that with her…could never give her that.

To remind me why, I headed to the bedroom on the first floor, which was tucked toward the back of the estate, nearer to the calming pond and away from sounds and other bothersome things. I pushed open the heavy, wooden doors, noting that despite the shuttered windows, not a single speck of dust lay on any of the furniture in the room. Even though the room remained unused for the better part of a decade, Arnold still made sure it was cleaned every week, and he kept everything in working order.

It was in honor of Heather, my way of keeping her memory alive in this room even though she couldn’t be here physically. And as everything else in the world moved on, this would remain the same.

And so would I.

The room was decorated in mid-century style, with light wooden decor and soft palette accents. The bed was a platform, and it was covered in goose-feather down pillows. A music box sat alone on a dresser, its tinkling tune last heard about a decade ago. I knew the song by heart; it sometimes haunted me in my dreams. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it because of what it had meant to her.

The last time I came here was almost a month ago, the longest I’d ever stayed away. When Heather was still alive, I’d come here daily, spending hours with her even when she was unconscious. We’d moved to this room when it became too difficult for her to ambulate up and down stairs. After some time, I moved back upstairs when it was clear my presence started to bother her.

The doctor explained that her cancer affected parts of her brain that controlled her emotions and sight. He cautioned that, soon, paranoia and hallucinations would set in. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to prepare me for what was to come.

She would scream when she saw me, say that she hated me, and accuse me of never loving her, of trying to kill her. I knew she didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t her speaking, but it hurt like hell to see her like that. But even more so, it hurt to see her writhe and wail in pain and to stand there helplessly, not knowing how to help her. Sometimes, the medicine did not work or took too long to knock her out. Sometimes, the music box would be the only thing that calmed her down. Or nothing would.

The first few weeks after she passed, I couldn’t come into this room without pain spearing through me, but I made myself do it anyway. The constant torture of my memories was my penance for not saving her, and I bore the punishment like a brand. It didn’t matter how much it hurt. She had died, and I hadn’t been able to stop it. I deserved everything I got.

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