Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(74)

"You're thinking like a sugar baby."

"I am?"

"Now you've got a Plan B in case your main sugar daddy dumps you. But be careful.. .you don't want to lose Daddy while you're reeling in the son."

"I'm not reeling anyone in." I protested. "This is simple compassion for a fellow human being. Believe me, he's not a Plan B."

"Sure he's not. Call me, sweetie, and let me know what happens."

"Nothing's going to happen," I said. "We can't stand each other."

"You lucky girl. That's the best kind of sex."

"He's half dead. Angie."

"Call me later," she repeated, and hung up.

In about forty-five minutes I returned to the condo with two bags of groceries. Gage was nowhere in sight. As I followed a trail of wadded-up tissues toward the bedroom. I heard the sounds of a shower running, and I grinned as I realized he had taken my suggestion. I went back to the kitchen, picking up tissues along the way, and deposited them in a garbage disposal that looked as if it had never been used. That was about to change. I took the groceries out of the bags, put about half of them away, and rinsed a three-pound chicken in the sink before setting it in a pot to boil.

Finding a cable news channel on TV, I turned up the volume so I could hear while I was cooking. I was making chicken and dumplings, the best cure I knew of. My version was pretty good, although nothing came close to Miss Marva's.

I made a hill of white flour on a cutting board. It felt like silk in my fingers. It seemed

like forever since I'd cooked anything. I hadn't realized how much I had missed it. I pinched butter into the flour until it formed tender crumbs. After making a little well in the top of the mound, I broke open an egg and poured its gelatinous contents into the depression. I worked quickly with my fingers, mixing the way Miss Marva had taught me. Most people use a fork, she had said, but something about the warmth of your hands made the dough better.

The only difficulty came when I hunted around the kitchen for a rolling pin and there was none to be found. I improvised with a cyndrilical highball glass, coating it with flour. It worked perfectly, creating a flat, even sheet that I cut into strips.

Seeing movement out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward the hallway. Gage stood there looking baffled. He was wearing a fresh white tee and ancient gray sweatpants. His long feet were still bare. His hair, shiny as ribbons, was damp from a recent washing. He was so different from the starched, polished, and buttoned-up Gage I was accustomed to, I think I probably looked as bewildered as he did. For the first time I saw him as an approachable human being instead of some kind of ubervillain.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he said.

"And miss my chance to boss you around?"

Gage kept staring at me as he lowered himself carefully to the sofa. He seemed enervated and unsteady.

I filled a glass with water and brought him two ibuprofen tablets. "Take these."

"I've already had Tylenol."

"If you alternate with ibuprofen every four hours, it'll bring the fever down faster."

He took the tablets and washed them down with a big gulp of water. "Where did you hear that?"

"Pediatrician. It's what they tell me every time Carrington has a fever." Noticing the goose bumps on his skin, I went to light the fireplace. A flip of a switch, and real flames spurted out from between sculpted ceramic logs. "More chills?" I asked sympathetically. "Do you have a lap blanket?"

"There's one in the bedroom. But I don't need—"

I was halfway down the hallway before he could finish.

His bedroom was decorated in the same minimalist style as the rest of the condo. the low platform bed covered in cream and navy, with two perfect pillows positioned against the gleaming wood-paneled wall. There was only one picture, an oil painting of a quiet ocean scene.

Finding an ivory cashmere throw on the floor, I brought it back to the living area along with a pillow. "Here you go," I said briskly, covering him with the blanket. I motioned for him to sit up, and I tucked the pillow behind his back. As I leaned over him, I heard a quick hitch in his breathing. I hesitated before pulling back. He smelled so good, so clean and male, and there was the same elusive scent I had noticed before, like amber, something warm and summery. It lured me so strongly that I found it difficult to move away from him. But the closeness was dangerous, it was causing something to unravel inside, something I wasn't

ready for. And then the strangest thing happened.. .he deliberately turned his face so a loose lock of my hair slid against his cheek as I drew back.

"Sorry," I said breathlessly, although I didn't know what for.

He gave a brief shake of his head. I was caught by his gaze, those hypnotic light eyes with the charcoal rings around the irises. I touched his forehead with my hand, testing his temperature. Still too hot, a steady fire beneath the skin.

"So.. .you got something against throw pillows?" I asked, withdrawing my hand.

"I don't like clutter."

"Believe me, this is the most z/ncluttery place I've ever been in."

He glanced over my shoulder at the pot on the stove. "What are you making?"

"Chicken and dumplings."

"You're the first person who's ever cooked in that kitchen. Besides me."