I looked through the peephole even though it was broad daylight—it always paid to be safe rather than sorry—only to be shocked at who stood on the other side.
“Marco? What are you doing here?”
“Heard you were sick,” he said, his arms holding a paper bag. “May I come in?”
“Um… Okay.” I made room for him, and he entered, glancing around him in interest.
“The kitchen through here?” he asked, pointing in the correct direction. The apartment was tiny so even if he made a wrong turn, he’d find it soon enough.
“Yeah. What are you doing?”
“Hopefully, I’ll make you feel better,” he said, a mischievous look on his face. He was thinking about last night, I could tell. And now, so was I. “So you don’t have to tell me, but you could give me a clue. Is this the sort of sick that involves sinus stuff or stomach stuff?”
My stomach had been tied in knots for hours and hours, so even though I wasn’t technically ill, I pointed at my abdomen in response. The knots had relaxed a little now that he was here. They’d metamorphized into a dozen butterflies swooping around inside it instead.
“Good, I can fix that.”
“You can fix it?” I asked, doubtfully.
“Yep,” he said cheerfully, using the can opener installed under one of our cabinets to open a can of soup. The brand was the expensive kind I never bought. He paused long enough to pull out a chair at our kitchen table. “Shouldn’t you be off your feet?”
I sat, awestruck by what he was doing. Here was this man in a fancy suit making me soup in my delipidated kitchen. This man who’d increased my salary and done nothing but wonderful things for me. This man who’d held me when I’d cried. This man who’d made me feel heights of bliss I hadn’t previously known were possible.
And now this.
I couldn’t remember the last person who’d spoiled me like Marco. I wasn’t sure anyone ever had. He searched the cupboards until he found a plastic bowl and poured the soup in, placing it into the microwave. While the soup heated up, he retrieved some ice trays from the freezer and filled a glass with ginger ale.
He’d brought a bouquet of flowers which he’d left in the sink, and when he didn’t find a vase, he simply arranged them in a tall glass. He set it in the middle of the table, making it into a centerpiece.
“You brought me flowers, too?” I asked him, at a complete loss. His response came in one of his warm smiles.
When the soup was ready, he asked, “Crackers?” And when I nodded, he crunched some up, found a clean spoon in a drawer, and placed it in front me. “Bon appetite.” Then, he prepared the same thing for himself and joined me. “It going down okay?”
I nodded again, even though I had yet to take a bite. I was so flabbergasted by Marco’s actions, I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t believe how sweet he was being. When we were partway through the meal, I screwed up my courage and asked, “You do this often?”
He took a drink. “Do what?”
“Take time off work to come pamper one of your employees.”
“Sure.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
He smiled at me, tickling the underside of my arm. “I’m kidding. This is the first time.”
“So you’re doing this just for me?”
“Yep.”
“Why?” I asked him, absolutely baffled.
“Because you deserve it.”
I frowned at him.
“You had a bad day yesterday,” he added. “And now you’re sick. Making sure you’re all right is the least I can do.”
Right then I felt something akin to melting around the area of my heart. It was a sensation I’d never felt before. It reminded me of what it felt like to watch a mama bear defending her young, kittens nuzzling their owner’s cheek, and puppies tumbling over one another as they played. It filled me up from head to toe, and before I was even aware I was doing it, I’d sat on his lap and kissed him.