“Did you think I opened a portal in a spreadsheet, crawled in, and went to sleep?”
His lips quirk. “Hmm. Possibly.”
“You can put my bag down there.” I point to a bench. “I really appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m crazy exhausted. I need to go to sleep. And you shouldn’t have arranged food because I’m not hungry,” I mumble with a yawn. I sit on the bed. I can’t believe how tired I am just from checking out of the hospital and a short drive.
Sebastian surprises me by sinking down on one knee and taking off one of my shoes. Then the other. I never thought feet were an erogenous zone, but I’m rethinking that now.
He looks up with an indecipherable expression. I imagine another scenario where his hands make their way up to my legs and beyond. Inconvenient desire surges.
“Lean back,” he growls.
Transfixed, I do as he instructs. Because,damn.
I lie back as he lifts my feet onto the bed, his hands moving up toward my bare legs and settling on my knees, kneading.
My heart speeds up. I’m practically shaking.
He looks down.
My breath catches.
“Emma,” he murmurs.
“Yes?” All my senses are suddenly fully awake.
“Sleep,” he growls.
Disappointment rushes through me.
He stands, watching me with a firm, commanding expression.
I don’t find that commanding expression superhot. Nope. I don’t.
“I’ll wake you when the food arrives. You have to take your medicine on a full stomach,” he adds in a low rumble.
And with that, he prowls out of the room. I’m left lying in bed staring at my cheap popcorn ceiling. Banging sounds. I know from experience that my upstairs neighbor’s kids have moved on from the game of chase to jumping from their bunk beds. Flecks of the paint and bits of ceiling float down and land light as air on my chest. I close my eyes, and the thudding ceiling and childish squeals from above lull me into a deep, deep sleep.
I wakeup fuzzy-headed and confused. At first, I think I’m back in the hospital. But I open one eye and then the other. I realize I’m in my own bed, still fully clothed, with a blanket.
It’s hard to tell if it’s day or night. My curtains are of the thick, blackout variety because my bedroom faces the parking lot and car headlights shine in at all hours of the night.
My face feels gritty, and my mouth is dry. My last memory is of Sebastian saying he’d wake me so I could eat and take my headache medicine, but I don’t remember doing that.
I must have fallen asleep and he got tired of waiting and left.
Sitting up causes my head to pound again, though it’s receded a little after my rest. Turning to my bedside clock, I see that it’s 10 p.m. and I’ve been out for hours.
Right, I decide. Shower first. And then I’ll rustle something up for dinner and take my medication. Or maybe Sebastian left the food he ordered.
I stand gingerly, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass before padding out into the hall and making my way into the bathroom.
I step into the shower and sigh deeply, reveling in the hot water pounding down my back. Even the intermittent bursts of cold that come through when someone else in the building flushes a toilet don’t dampen my ardor about being out of the hospital.
It’s true what they say—you need the bad to appreciate the good sometimes. Fifteen minutes later, I’m scrubbed, moisturized, and conditioned, and wrapped in a fluffy white towel.
I almost feel human.Almost.Because I still need caffeine. I don’t care if it’s late or I’m still supposed to limit it post-concussion.
Tucking my towel tighter, I smile to myself, imagining my ex-boss scolding me for my coffee-and-sugar habit.
