“There,” he states before standing again. “Should be good as new in a few days.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. “And sorry for getting you out of bed.”
“Anytime,” he says before getting rid of the trash and plucking a bottle of water from the fridge.
He twists the top off, lifts it to his lips, and drinks.
His throat ripples with every swallow, and I can’t look away.
How is something as simple as drinking so freaking hot?
Because he’s Everett Donnelly, and everything he does is hot.
“Did you want a bottle?” he asks, lowering his when he’s drunk three quarters of it.
I shake my head as he lifts his other hand and wipes his mouth with the back of it.
He frowns. “What was it you came for?”
You.
My cheeks blaze even though I manage to keep that response to myself.
“Oh, um…a drink.”
He studies me with a small smile. I’m not sure if he thinks I’m the most irritating person he’s ever met, or if I’m bordering on cute.
“You’re more than every single one of them.”His words from before come back to me.
Surely, he doesn’t really mean that. He’s just being nice to me because I have his baby in my uterus. He has to be nice to me. It certainly isn’t because I’m prettier or sexier than any of those who came before—or, hell, after—me.
“Okay,” he teases. “Did you want to give me a clue as to what drink, and I can see if I have it?”
“Oh, umm…”
I knew what I wanted when I came out here. But my plan was to have a silent snoop through his cupboards to see if it was possible before trying to convince my body that something else would settle my craving when I ultimately came up empty-handed.
Everett has only been living here for a few months. We’re in the height of summer; there is no way he’ll have what I want.
He drains his bottle, throws it into the recycling, crosses his thick arms over his chest, and waits.
“I know it’s July and everything, but I really wanted a hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate?” he echoes.
“Yeah. But forget it. A bottle of water will be just fine.”
His brow creases as if he’s not understanding what I’m saying.
“Okay,” he finally agrees before pulling another bottle from the fridge and handing it to me.
The second I wrap my fingers around it, he steps closer and hoists me from the counter before swinging me into his arms.
“I can walk, you know. It’s only my toe.” My argument is weak at best because, honestly, it feels so freaking good in his arms.
“I’m aware. Now where to? Couch or bed?”
I should say bed, but I know I’m not going to be able to sleep again for a while. I do need to get my cookies, though. I snuffled a few before getting out of bed to stave off my nausea, but they’ll only last so long.
