He said?—
“Acceptance,” he repeats. “I think I was an ass when we broke up. And I regret that. But I don’t regret that we’re back in each other’s lives. I’m looking forward to what comes next.”
“Whoa, buddy, slow your roll.” I blink hard, mostly because I don’t want to have this conversation.
I want to go into my bedroom and flop down and sleep for another three days.
Which I can’t do comfortably because I still can’t move my shoulder for nearly another week.
“You buying an experience with me,” I say slowly, concentrating on every word, “does not equate to you buying your way back into my life.”
He slides breakfast to me. “Yep.”
“Yep, you understand, or yep, yep it does?”
“Both.”
I look down at the plate with the egg sandwich to distract myself from Mr. Puzzles, and I whimper at how good it looks.
And don’t ask how it smells.
There is nothing on earth that could smell as good as this microwaved egg sandwich.
It’s making me drool.
I suck at my lip while I make a quick swipe with a napkin that I’m reasonably certain I used to wipe up spilled cheese dip the other day.
But it’s sitting there.
So I use it.
“Eat,” he says. “Coffee will be ready in a few.”
The scent of egg and cheese and bacon tickles my nose, and my mouth waters more. There’s a part of me that would generally argue on principle, but that part of me is still hungover.
So I do as he’s suggested—not told,suggested—and I pick up the sandwich with my good hand and take a bite.
Andoh my god.
Absolute.
Freaking.
Heaven.
I don’t look at Duncan, but I don’t need to.
I know he’s smirking like he’s Captain Hangover Cure to the rescue.
I do shoot a look at him when I realize what he’s doing now though.
He’s putting my dishes in the dishwasher.
“I was getting to that,” I say around another bite of my breakfast sandwich.
“Can’t be easy managing your life without full use of one of your arms.”
Every time I injure my shoulder, I realize how much I take two working arms and two working legs for granted. “Temporary inconvenience. I can do my own dishes.”
