“What?” I paused. “Oh. Yeah. I need your help mounting that.”
Nicole was still laughing when Estelle walked back into the room. She didn’t bother asking and I was glad for that because the last thing I needed was another mental image fucking Nicole.
DAYS LEADING UP to the mediation, I caught the flu. I was sick, pissed, and panicked. I’d never called out of work, but between the way I couldn’t keep one pair of clothes on without sweating right through it, my eyes not staying open for more than two minutes at a time, and the pain in my throat, I had no choice. Thankfully Corinne passed by with the files I needed and I was able to call Nicole and speak to her on the phone about the mediation so she knew what to expect. I was in the bathroom, blowing my nose for the tenth time, when the doorbell rang. I really fucking hoped it was my mom. Fuck any man who can’t admit that when they’re sick they want their fucking mom. I opened the door and had to shield my eyes from the sun, and then blink to make sure my meds weren’t playing tricks on me and it was really Nicole standing in front of me.
“Didn’t we just talk on the phone?” I said. Fuck, it hurt to talk.
“Yes, and I brought you soup,” she said, holding up a white plastic bag.
“Those words have never sounded sexier,” I said, getting out of the way for her to walk into the house. “How’d you find my address?”
“I asked your sister for it.”
I nodded. That’s right. They’d exchanged phone numbers the day of the ice cream parlor drama. Nicole followed me into the kitchen and looked around.
“I was a little shocked when Corrine called me to cancel our meeting today, and I didn’t like the idea of my lawyer not being on his A game in a few days, so . . .” She shrugged and held up the bag again as she set it down on the kitchen counter.
“That was nice of you,” I said, my voice a croaked whisper. It was really fucking nice of her.
“Where are your bowls?” she asked. I pointed at the cupboard behind her. “And your spoons?” I pointed at the drawer beside me. “And,” she glanced around once more, “I found your napkins.” She smiled at me. “Okay, your majesty, go lie down. I’ll be right there.”
I groaned and did as I was told, going back to my living room and putting my feet up. I covered myself with the Chargers blanket Estelle and Oliver had gifted me for my birthday last year and let my eyes drift shut. I jumped a little when I felt a cold cloth on my forehead, and my eyes popped open to find Nicole’s concerned eyes right beside my face.
“That feels good,” I said, groaning. I tried to smile but I wasn’t sure my lips were working.
“Your soup is getting cold,” she whispered. I tried to sit up, but kept failing, and then I felt her hands reach under me and heard her groan as she pulled me up.
“You’re strong,” I said, and felt myself smile when she laughed.
“I try.” She leaned down to pick up the bowl of soup and sat beside me. “Open your mouth.”
“You’re going to feed me?” I don’t know why I was so taken aback by her gesture.
“You don’t look like you’re in any condition to feed yourself. Unless you want me to call your brother-in-law and have him put in an IV?”
My eyes widened. Did she know I hated needles? Had I told her that before? I frowned and asked her. She laughed.
“I didn’t, but I’m glad I know now.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said, opening my mouth to drink some soup. I closed my eyes. It was so good. “Did you make this?”
“Is it good?”
My gaze met hers. “Did you make it or not?”
She smiled and fed me another spoonful. “That really depends on whether or not it’s good.”
“It’s better than good.”
“Well, I didn’t make it,” she said, laughing. “My old housekeeper, Amelia, did.”
I nodded, swallowing the soup in my mouth. “Well, tell Amelia I may want to marry her.”
Nicole scowled, blinking away, her eyes trained on the soup. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” she said.
“Why?” I asked, opening my mouth for another spoon.
“I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.”
I frowned. “I never said that.”
She looked at me, one brow raised in a challenge.
“Okay, so maybe I said that, but I was a twenty-five-year-old idiot. People change.”
“Not that much,” she whispered.
“You did,” I said. “But you’re right, not that much. You were still willing to let me mount you the other day at my sister’s.”
She smiled. “Even if I had been willing to let you do that there, which I wasn’t, you wouldn’t have done it.” She paused. “So I guess people do change after all. Twenty-five-year-old Victor would’ve done that anywhere I asked him to.”
“Like I said, twenty-five-year-old Victor was a fucking idiot.”
“You were pretty hot, though.”
“Still am,” I said.