Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She disappears too quickly for a reply. “Nurse?”
Silence extends between us until she finally gives in and replies, “Yes?”
Accomplishing my mission, I selfishly grin in bed. “I’m game if you’d like to stay and stare a while longer.”
The sound of a door closing is the only response I receive. I chuckle and rearrange myself onto my back again. This isn’t my favorite position to sleep in since I’m usually on my side, but there’s no pain lying here staring at the ceiling.
It’s tempting to call Autumn again to tease her, but it’s a quarter past one, and I’m sure she’s in no mood to break the ice between us. She’s on the feistier side, but I don’t mind because she sure is pretty. I’m just confused about how I’ve not seen her before. Even if I hadn’t ever run into her, the guys would have been talking about a knockout down at the hospital. But no one did. Strange. So where has she been hiding my whole life?
After a deep breath, my body sinks into the mattress, and I close my eyes. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a few more hours of rest before sunrise.
“Why are you smiling?” Autumn plants her hand on her hip and levels me with a look. I’ll give it to her. She doesn’t put up with shit from anyone. That look alone could kill a man who crossed her. She still can’t manage to erase the grin from my face, though, because I’m no ordinary man.
I also can’t stop looking at her. She’s got a great face, and she knows how to move her body in ways that only highlight how sexy she is, even if she is currently annoyed by me.
“If I had known that getting a little injury would land me a live-in chef, I would have made more of an effort before. Bacon and eggs.” I rub my hand over my full stomach. “I’m eating like a king this morning.”
“Getting hurt didn’t get you a live-in chef.” She pauses, twisting her lips to the side as she lifts her gaze to the ceiling. Turning her back to me, she messes about with the carton of eggs. “I suppose I am responsible for your meals, but . . .” She glances over her shoulder at me. “I’m hardly a chef. I just made breakfast from the food your mom brought over yesterday.” She reaches up to tuck the carton on the top shelf of the door and adds, “Does she always buy your groceries?”
She would love to hear that I’m a Mama’s Boy just to have something to hold over me. I am, if loving and caring for my mom fits the definition. “I take care of myself and do my own shopping. She was helping with some basics to get me by until I’m able to get back out myself. But since I have you here—”
“I’ve already started a list.” She leans on the peninsula between us and picks up a pen. Tapping the tip on a pad of paper, she asks, “How do you feel about chicken?”
“Great.”
“Pasta?” Her eyes stay glued to the pad as she jots more notes.
I shift on the barstool, the hardwood starting to shoot pain up my back. “Can’t get enough.”
“Lentils?”
“Lentils?” I scrunch my nose, imagining those soggy little fuckers messing up my soup when I was little. “Who calls them lentils?”
“Everyone, because they’re called lentils.” She stares at me, but also blinks first and huffs, knowing she just lost the contest. “Fine. Seeds of beans. Legumes?”
“Love ’em.”
“I take it you’re a steak-and-potatoes guy.” The ink is already dry, like she knows me well enough without confirming.
“Looks can be deceiving.” Surprise sends her brow up. “But not this time. Love steak and potatoes.”
I catch the faintest of eye rolls before she makes more notes. “Sweets?”
“All the sweets.”
Glancing up at me again, she asks, “Maybe it would be easier to ask what you don’t like.”
“Mushrooms.”
Tapping her pin to the pad, she laughs. “Got it. No foraging for us.”
“We can forage. Just not for mushrooms.”
“Actually, there will be no foraging on my watch. My sole goal is to get you healthy enough to return to work. You’ve already been on that barstool too long. Let’s get you to the couch, and I’ll bring you something to drink.” She comes around the counter, weaving her arm under mine and around my back. With her gentle lift, I move with her to the couch. It’s not like I didn’t walk in here this morning on my own, or even last night. I don’t want to make her feel like she’s not helping, so I add in a little limp at the end before dropping onto the couch. “Ow,” I bemoan for added effect. “Foie gras.”
“Foie gras?”
“I don’t like foie gras.”
She laughs as she slips away and returns to the kitchen and her notepad. Leaning down, she starts writing again. “Lucky for you, I don’t have foie gras on the menu.”