How West Was Won (Haven, Texas 7)

Flick blinked the sleep from her eyes as the door to her bedroom opened. Her mouth felt dry, and . . . yuck, was that drool on her pillow?

“Could I get any more attractive?” she muttered to herself. She carefully rolled onto her back, wiping at her chin with her good hand.

“I’m gonna take the fifth on that,” a deep voice replied.

She stiffened. She’d assumed it was Mia walking into her room. Stupid mistake, Flick. Of course, he wouldn’t knock before entering. He’d slept on her floor last night. He’d been the one to take her in to get an X-ray on her shoulder earlier today. He’d also been the one who’d carried her into the house and upstairs, settling her into bed when she’d dozed off during the ride home. She’d worried about him carrying her around with his leg, but, truth was, his limp didn’t seem to hold him back from doing anything.

“Um, crap, so this isn’t embarrassing or anything.”

“You always snore in your sleep?” he asked, sounding amused as he sat a bowl down on the bedside table.

She gaped at him. “I don’t snore.”

His lips twitched. “My mistake. Do you always breathe so loudly when you sleep?”

“Only when I’m really tired.”

His gaze narrowed, darkened. Seemed he didn’t like that explanation.

“Maybe you could just forget anything you heard or saw in the last hour or so?” she asked desperately.

“Hour? Sunshine, you’ve been asleep all afternoon,” he told her.

All afternoon? Shit. She tried to get her good arm underneath her to lift herself up. Without a word, he was there, gently helping her sit and arranging the pillows behind her back.

“You’re good at that.”

He snorted. “Looked after my younger brothers when they were sick.”

He had?

“That surprises you.”

“You just, ah, you, don’t seem . . . I mean . . .” she took a deep breath. “For fuck’s sake, Flick, shut up now.”

“Don’t say fuck. Or tell yourself to shut up.”

She sighed. “You know that makes you a big hypocrite?”

“Yep,” he replied easily. He sat facing her and pulled a napkin out of his pocket. Then he leaned forward and roughly tucked it in

to the front of the T-shirt she’d fallen asleep in.

She shied back. “What are you doing?”

“Figured you’d want to avoid spilling soup on your shirt.”

“I’m not that messy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I was thinking more of myself.”

What the heck did that mean? She understood when he reached over and grabbed the spoon. He drew some up to his lips and tested the temperature before holding it out to her. Good Lord, is he for real?

“You’re not feeding me.”

His other eyebrow joined the first one. “I’m not?” He looked pointedly from the spoon to her mouth.

“I mean, I can feed myself. I have one good hand.”