“And—oh, would you have Bruno bring it in? He’s probably lurking outside like the world’s most stoic jailer. Thanks.”
I flopped back onto the pillows, wincing slightly. Painkillers? Tempting thought. But I had a sneaking suspicion that numbing my senses would be a tactical error in this place—like going into battle with earplugs in and one hand tied behind your back.
Before long, there was a knock at the door—a knock that somehow managed to sound big and bulky. Bruno’s knock.
“Come in,” I called out.
The door swung open and in rolled a food cart that looked more like a feast fit for a king—or at least a very spoiled prince.
“Just leave it here, big guy,” I said, patting the space next to the bed, striving to sound casual, as if having an enforcer-turned-waiter was part of my everyday routine.
Bruno just nodded again and left, shutting the door with a soft click that sounded like a lock snapping shut—even though it wasn’t.
I eyed the cart: stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, platters of crispy bacon begging to be devoured, bowls of fruit glistening like jewels… It was food porn at its finest.
Shuffling over with as much grace as my sore body could muster, I dug in like a man on a mission. Between bites, I flipped through channels on the TV, settling on some morning talk show where the hosts laughed too loud and everything was BREAKING NEWS.
With each mouthful of fluffy pancake goodness, I felt life seep back into my bones—a syrupy sweet resurrection. Who knew heaven could be found in breakfast carbs and daytime TV banter?
As the final morsel of pancake bliss surrendered to the abyss of my well-fed stomach, I slumped back into the mountain of pillows, eyelids heavy with the weight of a thousand syrups. The next thing I knew, I was drifting off to the land of nod, where the pancakes were endless and no one ever asked you to do squats.
Some indeterminate amount of time later—a gentleman never counts his Zs—I felt a gentle brush against my forehead. My eyelids fluttered open like hesitant butterflies to find Matt sitting beside me, his gaze fixed on my face with that unsettling intensity that could either mean he was about to kiss me or launch a hostile takeover of my personal space.
How long had he been sitting there like some brooding romance novel cover model? I wondered.
“Good sleep?” he inquired, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey.
“The best ever,” I drawled. “Gotta hand it to you, that mattress is something else. Feels like sleeping on a cloud—assuming clouds are made of angel feathers and not just boring old condensed water vapor.”
Matt’s lips quirked up at the corners. “And how’s your ass feeling?”
I winced theatrically, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest like a shield against further indecency. “Awful,” I admitted with as much dignity as one could muster in such compromising circumstances. “Feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. It’ll be a long while before I can handle another pounding from you.” Of course, that was about as true as those tabloid headlines claiming aliens had taken up residence in the White House.
“Is that so?” Matt chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief.
He had the kind of chuckle that made you think of dark alleyways and promises you weren’t sure you wanted to keep. “Yeah,” I replied, feigning a grimace. "I'll probably need to be swaddled in protective padding for the next month."
He leaned in closer, and I felt my face heat up—damn traitorous blush. “Dinner out tonight? What do you say?”
Despite every fiber of my being screamingyesto more fine dining, I shook my head. My pride might have taken more hits than a piñata at a kid’s birthday party lately, but even I knew when to wave the white flag.
“I can’t even get out of bed,” I said with a rueful smile. “Unless you plan on carrying me there.”
Matt’s lips curved into that signature smirk of his, the kind that promised trouble and delivered double. “Tempting,” hemurmured, his eyes flicking over me with a heat that could’ve melted glaciers, “but we’ll have dinner here.”
I motioned to get out of bed.
“Need help with showering?” he asked, his eyes glinting with something far too wicked to be simple concern.
I waved him off, attempting to muster some semblance of dignity. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
So there I was, waddling into the bathroom like a penguin dressed for a toga party, the bedsheets clinging to my dignity for dear life. Matt watched my awkward shuffle with barely concealed amusement.
Once inside the bathroom’s sanctuary, I unwrapped myself from the makeshift toga and froze. Holy mother of Vegas buffets, I was a walking advertisement forwild night out. Bite marks and love souvenirs littered my skin, turning my body into a canvas of lustful memories. The mirror revealed an especially bold claim on my neck, another branding my shoulder, and let’s not even start on the state of my nipples. It was like I’d been attacked by a particularly amorous octopus.
“Great,” I muttered to myself, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water work its magic. “Now I’m a walking billboard for Matt Caine’s affections. Andy Donovan: now featuring an interactive map of last night’s escapades.”
A shower later, steam curling around me like spirits from a forgotten bathhouse in Mystic Spring, I felt human again. I managed to wrap myself in one of those ridiculously plush bathrobes Matt had stockpiled. Fully naked underneath but feeling invincible in terry cloth armor, I made my way back into the bedroom.
