He just shrugged and started pouring a cup of coffee for me from the French press.
“How long have you been up?” I looked down at the feast before me, trying to contemplate how long it had taken him to make the individual dishes and then combine them into a soufflé.
“A while. I wanted you to have a Thanksgiving meal.”
I steadied his hand and watched his gaze meet mine. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”
After handing over a steaming cup of coffee, he disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he was ready to begin the not-so-pleasant part of the morning.
“Mood killer,” I complained.
“You know me—highly punctual and responsible,” he said, shaking the box of pills marked off by the days of the week.
“So sexy,” I retorted.
Although I had a new heart and was as healthy as I could be, I would never be able to outrun the pharmacist. Transplant patients, whether with a heart like mine or any other organ, had one major fear that ruled their lives—the possibility of rejection.
This heart now beating inside my chest was a stand-in, a counterfeit for the damaged sick one that I’d been born with. At any point in my life, my body could reject this perfect organ and this life. Everything I held so dear could be over in the blink of an eye.
Tossing my head back, I dutifully took my morning pills before diving into my breakfast. “Oh, wow. This is good.”
“Yeah?” he asked, scooping a chunk of cheesy soufflé onto his plate.
“Absolutely. And the mashed potato thingies . . . yum,” I said between bites.
He laughed at my enthusiasm as he dived into his own breakfast. The comfortable silence settled between us while we ate.
“Are you sure you’re okay with going alone today?” he asked after he’d set his plate back on the tray.
I was going back for seconds but nodded as I licked butter off my thumb.
“It’s just a checkup, Jude. I have them every month, which seems a bit of an overkill anyway.”
He ignored my comment about the frequency of doctor visits and sighed. “I know, but I always go with you.”
Briefly setting the plate down, I looked up at him. “I know, and I appreciate it, but go spend a little time with your mom. She doesn’t come into the city that often anymore. Take her to Bloomingdale’s and get some shopping done. I’ll meet you for lunch.”
He let out an audible shudder. “I can’t believe she chose this day. Of all the days to shop, she had to pick this one.”
“Maybe she wants a bargain?” I offered up as a reason his mother would drive into the city on Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the year, to spend the day with her son.
“A deal? At Bloomingdale’s and Saks? I doubt that.”
“Well, maybe she just misses you. We did ditch her on Thanksgiving this year—and there is the little issue of Christmas.”
He rolled his eyes, rising from his spot on the bed, and he walked toward the closet. I took the time to appreciate his backside, covered only in boxers. He was just as handsome as the first day I’d met him—tall, muscular with a hint of danger swirling around those black tattoos angling down his arm.
“We did not ditch her. I asked if she wouldn’t mind if we had dinner here. She chose to stay in the country with friends.”
“I know. She told me, and she was actually excited about it. She said it was the first time she wouldn’t have to worry about planning a menu in years. Notice that I didn’t say cook.” I laughed.
“She never cooked, but she’d still make herself sick while planning every damn detail for the holidays. She wanted everything to be absolutely special for us.”
“And was it?” I asked, picking my plate back up to gobble up the last of my potatoes.
“Of course. She loved seeing us happy.”
“Runs in the family,” I said.
“Well, some of us,” he commented.
“Give him time, Jude. He might surprise you just yet.”
“Maybe, but I’m not holding my breath.”
As he returned to the bathroom to shower, my attention turned to the windows near our bed. I couldn’t help but look out onto the city and wonder if, somewhere in that sea of people, someone was out there for Roman, someone who could find the man I knew he wanted to become.
The first time I had gone swimming in the ocean was about a year ago. Jude and I, back from our adventures in Ireland, had flown to Santa Monica to visit my mom and Marcus for the weekend.
We’d spent two days with them, enthralling them with stories and pictures of our visit to the Emerald Isle. Of course, I couldn’t say no when they’d begged me to share the epic way in which Jude had proposed to me. It had been a lovely weekend, and it had gotten even more perfect when Jude asked me to take a walk along the beach that Sunday afternoon.
We’d dipped our toes in the ocean, remembering the first time we’d been here together.
Suddenly, he’d said, “Let’s go swimming!”
“Like right now?” I’d asked, not bothering to cover my laughter.