“Coming.”
“Not in the good way,” I muttered.
A bark of laughter escaped his mouth, and he stepped back. “Let Sofia check you over, Missy.” He paused with a deep breath. “Please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” I retorted, walking away from him. “Fine.”
He caught my hand and lifted it to his lips. He never broke eye contact as he kissed my palm. “Thank you.”
I headed to the sofa, my heart racing, my lips aching, wanting the feel of his mouth on them.
What the hell was happening to me?
A short while later, Sofia sat beside me with a frown. “Your blood pressure is still very low. I don’t like it. Are you drinking enough?”
“I think so?”
“I’m not shocked at the blood pressure, given what you experienced, but I want to watch it.”
“What should I do?”
She shook her head. “Lots of rest, fluids, nothing strenuous. Give your body a few days to recuperate. It’s still in fight-or-die mode, Missy. It needs to catch up with your brain. You’re safe.” She smiled ruefully. “Your head knows it, but the rest of you needs to get on the same page.”
“Don’t tell Marcus.”
She frowned. “I can’t lie to him.”
“But isn’t there some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality here?”
“This isn’t the normal kind of doctor-patient relationship. I work for the team. Marcus knows everything. He has to in order to make the proper decisions.”
“I’m not part of the team. Please don’t tell him. I’ll be good. I’ll rest. If you tell him, he’ll just worry.”
“Already worried, sweetheart,” Marcus announced, walking in. For such a large man, he moved with far too much stealth. “Whatever it is, I want to know.” He fixed his gaze on Sofia. “Tell me.”
She explained the same thing she’d said to me. I felt his gaze, but I refused to meet his eyes.
“Got it,” was all he said when she finished. “Rest. Liquids. Food. I can handle that.”
“I have a double shift tomorrow. If you get worried, bring her to me in the ER. Otherwise, I’ll check her when I’m back.” She smiled at me kindly. “You have lots of pain meds, and Marcus will look after you.”
“Yep,” he said. “I will.”
I knew what that meant. I was a prisoner of a whole different kind with Marcus. I wouldn’t be allowed to do anything.
Somehow, I knew I had a lot of downtime on my hands. I had never done well with downtime. My grandmother used to give me lots to stay busy.
“Idle hands are the devil’s work,” she would say.
I doubted Marcus was going to give me weeding to do, peas to shell, laundry to fold, or errands to run. His apartment was already meticulous, and from what I had tasted, he needed no help in the kitchen. I already knew without asking that going with him to the second floor where they ran their team was a complete no go.
I was stuck in here.
With him.
Oddly, it didn’t sound as awful as it should have.
Chapter Six
Missy
I hated proving people right, but for the rest of the day, every time I sat down, every time I was quiet for more than a minute, I fell asleep. Each time I woke up, Marcus was there—across from me on the other sofa, working away quietly, piles of files stacked in front of him, his laptop open. He would hand me a drink and a snack, urging me to drink more water when I was done. I would no sooner finish whatever he had given me then I was out.
He fed me spaghetti for dinner, the thick sauce delicious, the pasta easy to eat with my still-sore throat.
It was delicious, and I told him so as I slurped a mouthful of noodles, trying not to laugh at the look of horror on his face when I cut them to make eating them easier.
He shook his head. “Like this, sweetheart.” Patiently, he twirled noodles like a freaking expert with his fork and spoon, lifting it to my mouth. “You eat it like this.”
I pursed my lips, cut more pasta, and slurped again. The truth was, I knew how to twirl—maybe not as smoothly as he did, but I could fake it well—but frankly, I was too tired to bother, and seeing his reaction made something inside me want to tease him. To make him frown as he seriously tried to teach me to eat spaghetti properly. He looked ridiculously sexy when he frowned. He looked even sexier when he gave up and he fed me from his plate—perfectly rolled little bundles of spaghetti, thick with sauce. With zero effort from me. I called it a win/win situation.
He put in a movie after dinner, returning to his files. I didn’t make it past the opening credits before I fell asleep again, replete with pasta and feeling exhausted by the effort of sitting up for an hour. It had been a long time since I’d felt so safe and able to relax. The last image I had was his gaze watching me as I drifted.