Brock lay back in bed, all the pillows and cushions of the room piled up behind his back. He read in the nightstand lamp's warm glow, and scowled up from over his readers at the soft creak of the opening door.
Gillian showed up with an apologetic grimace, and was forced to wear her best poker face at Brock's elegant black pajamas. Jeez, did he really live dressed up to the nines? Anyway, it suited him. It was just so like him. And he actually looked go—right there, Reg.
Before he could voice what his scowl broadcasted, she said, "I'm bringing your dinner in twenty, sir. Anything else you may need?"
Brock narrowed his eyes, not buying she was there only to say that.
"No, thanks," he said, and even though he was polite, his voice seemed to dig a ten-foot-deep trench between them. Surrounded by barbed wire. And landmines.
She only nodded and walked out.
Brock waited to hear the lock click. When it didn't, he snorted. Well, he tried to, felt the throbbing pain just below his chest and grimaced. As soon as the adrenaline had receded, he knew there was something wrong with his ribs. The doctor had just confirmed it. Great, his first case in the field in months and he ended up in bed as if he belonged in a nursing home. And if he knew Gillian a little, she intended to nurse after him. As if he were ever going to let her.
She was back fifteen minutes later, smelling of warm water and scented cream, her hair still wet, clean clothes on—which made Brock long for the shower he wouldn't take that night. She carried a pack of small bottles of water and a tray with a salad.
Without a single word or even a glance, she took the pack to the minibar. Then she went to the bed and waited for him to put his book by his side on the bed, still open to resume his reading as soon as he was alone again. She placed the tray on his lap, a bottle on the nightstand by his glass, and walked out.
To be back within a minute with her own dinner and her tablet.
Brock's scowl deepened like a storm alert as he watched her sit at the table, open her tablet and her meal, and start eating. He knew he couldn't breathe deep without seeing little colored stars. So he fixed his eyes on her until she looked up and met them.
He managed to arch his eyebrows and keep scowling at the same time—Gillian thought he might be the only human able to do that. "Need more condiment, sir?" she asked, in her most neutral and casual tone.
"What're you doing, Gillian?" His voice was like a claw of ice closing slowly around her throat, and she was sure that was exactly what he would've liked to do.
"Having dinner, sir." Just out of some miracle, she managed not to laugh at the way he set his jaw and glared at her—don't play smart on me. "I'm sorry, sir. Doctor's orders. You're not to be left alone until morning."
Gillian turned to her own salad, because Brock kept looking at her as if she had just slapped him. She heard him grunt under his breath and start eating, so she opened the eBook she was reading and tried to pay a little attention to it. It was going to be a long night, with Brock just a few steps away all the time and hating her guts. She'd better get used to the idea.