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“You’re impossible,” he sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips.
“That’s why you asked me to marry you. You need a challenge,” I teased.
“Why would you say that?”
“Most things come so easy for you,” I shrugged. “You need to work for this.”
“You’re right, I do,” he replied, his gaze intense and unwavering. “Because you’re the most important person in my life.”
“So, burger?” I asked, pressing my advantage.
He picked up his phone from the counter and called in my order. My mouth watered at the thought of biting into the juicy burger, imagining the melted Gruyère and tender beef. After he hung up, I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my head against his back.
“Ryleigh, don’t do that,” he murmured.
“Why?” I asked innocently, sliding my hand under his black t-shirt to stroke the ridges of his muscles.
“You know why.”
“Suppose I said I wanted you?” I whispered, my fingers tracing his skin.
Oliver gently unhooked my hands from around his waist and turned to face me. “I would say as much as I want you, the answer is no. You’re not one hundred percent, and I suspect you got sick because of the little sleep you get.”
“Another thing you’re blaming yourself for?” I growled, frustrated.
“Yes. We don’t need to make love three times a night.”
“We don’t NEED to, but we WANT to. There’s a big difference,” I argued.
“Be patient,” he advised softly.
“Patience isn’t my strong suit,” I admitted.
“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m well aware,” he said, planting a kiss on the top of my head before retreating to his office.
I frowned after him, feeling the sting of his absence. It felt good to get out of the bedroom, and I plopped down on the couch, picking up a decorating magazine from the table. Oliver received several trade magazines since he was in the business, always keen to stay updated on the latest trends and discuss designs with his interior decorators.
Our meal arrived twenty minutes later, the aroma from the silver tray making my stomach growl. I didn’t wait for Oliver to sit down, taking a large bite of my burger and softly moaning as I chewed, savoring the blend of meat, cheese, and mushrooms.
“Easy. Take small bites,” Oliver advised, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I’m starving. I’ve been eating soup for the past few days,” I mumbled between bites.
“You don’t have to make up for it in one shot,” he said, uncovering his own plate to reveal the same type of burger, accompanied by a large heaping pile of pomme frites. I reached over and took some for myself.
“Did you talk to your parents today?” he asked.
“I called my mother this morning. Anders was at work,” I replied.
“How are they doing?”
“Fine. My mother sounded closer to normal today.”
The memory of my first bout with pneumonia resurfaced, a freshman in college, spending two days in the hospital and two weeks in bed. It was during Christmas break, but it was the closest I ever came to dying.
I could barely breathe and felt like I was drowning. The experience left my mother fearful, especially when I got it again in my junior year. It wasn’t as severe, but I still spent a week in bed.
As I took another bite of my burger, I felt Oliver’s eyes on me, full of concern and love.
