“Simon?” When I walked back out into the lounge, he seemed alert. He sniffed the air and asked, “Are you really cooking?” “Yes.” “Nah, I must still be asleep. Weird dream, though.” “I’m cooking, nuff-nuff. I take it you’re hungry?” “Smells like soup,” he said sleepily. His hair was ruffled and smushed up against the left side of his face. I had to resist the urge to tame it back down, because it made him look adorable. Ack, adorable! Dec would die if he knew I was applying that word to him. “It is.” “Heinz or Campbell?” He then perked up slightly. “Or did my mum bring some over?” Offended, I said icily, “I made it.” “Campbells, then,” Dec said decisively, his head dropping back down on the cushion. “You don’t like Heinz.” “Ye of little faith,” I said scornfully. “The only thing that came out of a packet in this soup is the noodles.” He opened one eye. “Really?” “Really.”
What do You think about Just Like Florence Nightingale?
