FAKE DATING WITH BENEFITS MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS (Ophelia Corrigan) novel Chapter 61

CHAPTER 61

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I woke up the next morning with a hard-on and a bad feeling.

The hard-on was because of Jamie. The bad feeling was because I hadn’t heard from her since she’d left my office the afternoon before.

I sent two texts. She didn’t answer.

By nine in the morning, I was already at the office, pacing behind my desk like a caged animal. Every few minutes, my gaze slipped to the security camera feed on my laptop-her empty office, her dark computer screen, the silence where her presence should be.

By ten, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I went down to legal, ignoring the curious looks from paralegals and assistants. Ethan was at his desk, and the moment he saw me, something glinted in his eyes.

“Where’s Collins?” I asked, voice neutral.

“Sick,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing. “Called in this morning. Fever, congestion. Not coming in today.”

“She say anything else?”

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Said to handle the Montclair closing without her. Said you’d know what to do.”

I stared at him for a long moment, and he stared right back. I saw the challenge in his eyes, the desire to test me, and I decided right then I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Thanks,” I said, voice dry. “I’ll handle it.”

I turned and walked away before I could say something I’d regret.

But I didn’t handle it.

Not the way he imagined.

Because instead of burying myself in paperwork, I spent the next six hours thinking about her. Sick. Alone. With a fever. Probably lying in her apartment with no one to take care of her.

By four in the afternoon, I’d made a decision.

I left the office early, stopped at the grocery store on the way-chicken broth, ginger, garlic, the kind of ingredients my dad used when he made his famous soup-and drove straight to her apartment.

She didn’t answer when I knocked.

I knocked again, harder. Nothing.

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FAKN DATING WITH BENEFITS: MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS

I pulled out my phone and called her. It rang three times, then hit voicemail.

mie, I know you’re in there,” I said, voice low and firm. “Open the door. I’m not leaving.”

Silence.

Then the sound of shuffling footsteps, a muffled cough, and the door cracked open.

She looked terrible.

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Her hair was a mess, her face pale, eyes glassy with fever. She was wrapped in an old, worn-out robe, clutching it against her body like armor, and she was shaking slightly.

“Simon,” she said, voice hoarse. “What are you-”

“I heard you were sick,” I said, pushing the door open slowly. “I came to take care of you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Let me in, Jamie.”

She stepped aside, and I walked in.

The place was a mess. Not dirty, but sick-person messy. Empty tea mugs on the coffee table. A crushed box of tissues on the floor. Her blanket bunched up on the couch.

I took over immediately.

“Sit,” I ordered, pointing at the couch. “Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Jamie.” I looked at her. “Sit. Now.”

She sat.

I went to the kitchen, found a pot, and started making soup. Simple recipe-chicken broth, ginger, garlic, some vegetables, noodles-the kind of thing my dad used to make for me when I was sick.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she called from the couch, voice raspy.

“I can’t,” I said. “But even I know how to boil water.”

I heard a weak laugh, which turned into a cough.

The soup was ready in twenty minutes. I ladled some into a bowl, brought it to her, and sat on the ottoman in front of her, my knees almost touching hers.

“Eat,” I said. “All of it.”

“That’s a lot of soup,” she mumbled, but she took a spoonful anyway.

“It’s the least I can do.”

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She looked at me over the bowl, something soft and vulnerable in her eyes. But she looked away quickly, like she didn’t want me to see.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly.

“Because you’re sick, you’re stubborn, and you probably haven’t eaten all day.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I knew what she meant. I just didn’t want to answer.

“Eat your soup, Jamie.”

She ate the whole bowl. Then she leaned back on the couch, looking a little better, but still pale and tired/

“You’re going to get sick,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “You shouldn’t be this close to me.”

“I don’t care.”

Her eyes met mine. “You should.”

“Maybe.” I stood, went to her closet, grabbed a thick blanket, and wrapped it around her. Then I sat on the couch beside her. “But I’m not leaving.”

She protested weakly-something about me being too stubborn, about her being contagious. I ignored it.

Instead, I pulled her against me, wrapping my arms around her, letting her lean her weight against my chest. She was so warm, her body radiating heat like a furnace.

“This is a terrible idea,” she murmured against my shoulder.

“Probably,” I agreed. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to catch this, you know. You’re going to be sick and miserable for the next five days.”

“Worth it.”

She fell asleep within minutes.

I held her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest, listening to her breathe through the congestion.

When she woke up, I was still there. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the windows. Her head was still on my chest.

“Simon,” she whispered, voice soft.

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