He had a point.
“You went in alone,” I accused.
“This is not the men’s fight.”
“I think they beg to differ.”
A muscle jerked under the stubble along his jaw and he muttered fumingly, “That was my fuckup. But I’ll talk them down.”
“You think?”
He focused on me.
Like, really focused.
And then he asked, “Why are you here?”
I didn’t hesitate to answer. “Because you’re doing stupid shit and someone has to sort you out.”
“So you can’t swing by my hospital room to see if I’m okay, but you can swing by my house to get up in my face?”
I blew out an infuriated breath, realizing I not only needed to ignore the yearnings of my heart, but also listen to the rational part of my head.
I looked away and mumbled, “This was a mistake.”
“Giving a shit about me is a mistake?”
My gaze raced back to him. “Do I have to remind you what went down with us between Thanksgiving and Christmas not very long ago?”
“No, baby,” he drawled. “I remember you walking out of my house, and my life, like it was yesterday.”
How much would I have to talk my way around it at the pearly gates if I threw something at a man who had one usable hand and the same with his legs?
Since I wasn’t fired up to have to explain myself to Saint Peter, I had to get out of there.
I whirled and didn’t get out of there.
He had a book, the TV remote and one of those gallon-sized water bottles, half full, on his coffee table.
Oh, and a gun.
I ignored the gun.
No blanket. No comfy pillow from his bed so he could take a nap. No tablet to play games or whatever. No snacks within reach.
I whirled back to him. “What the fuck is this?”
“What the fuck is what?”
“Who brought you home?”
“Cap.”
Lord save me.
Men!
Without looking at him, I tramped up the stairs and went right to his bedroom, then his bath.
