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“Only bits and pieces,” I admit. “Food poisoning?”
He nods. “Seems so.”
I blow out a breath. “Well, considering you didn’t get sick, I think we can rule out contamination from the apartment. Must’ve been my lunch.”
“What’d you have?” he asks.
I grimace a little. “Shrimp tacos.”
Teddy’s lips twitch.
“Never again,” I groan. “No more shrimp. Ever. Actually, no more crustaceans, period.”
“I thought you wanted a hermit crab.”
It takes me a minute to remember what he’s talking about. I’d almost forgotten my fifteen-second conviction that I wanted a pet crab like Emil’s.
“Well, I wouldn’t eat it,” I point out.
Teddy huffs a laugh. “The doctor said you’re fine to leave so long as you’re feeling well enough. What d’you say? Should I grab a nurse?”
I nod. “Please. Take me home, Teddy. I just want to lie on the couch all day and be a potato.”
“You’d be a very cute potato,” he says, leaning down and kissing my forehead. My pulse skips, and I’m grateful I’m not hooked up to a heart monitor. “I’ll be right back.”
As Teddy steps away, I look down at what I’m wearing. “Am I in your sweatpants?”
He shoots me a little grin as he opens the door.
“I have my own sweatpants, you know!”
My call goes unanswered, and Teddy chuckles as he walks away.
Pft. Dressing me in his clothes like I’m… Like I’m his… Fuuuck. Like I’m his doll. Because I am. And great. Now I have a boner in a hospital.
Niko is never going to let me live this down.
“Hey, Teddy?” I call.
The man appears from down the hall, his shirtsleeves pushed up past his forearms. It’s been twenty-four hours since we got back from the hospital, and although Teddy spent some of that time in his office working, right now he’s freshly showered, his hair damp. I drink him in for a moment before remembering my very important question.
“Why do you never talk to me in French?”
He cocks his head. “Do you want me to? You wouldn’t understand me.”
“Yeah, but isn’t it supposed to be sexy?”
His lips twitch. I hate that damn twitch. And by hate, I mean love.
Teddy walks into the room slowly, stopping at the end of the sectional where I’m lying and have been for most of the morning. He leans close, his hand on the back of the couch, his arm muscles doing very nice things. “Comment te sens-tu, ma p’tite patate?” he says.
I open my mouth before clearing my throat. Twice. “What, um… What does that mean?”
“How are you feeling, my little potato?”
I bark a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Mhm. Did it sound sexier in French?”
