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I blink. The poison his blood part was obviously something Sam overheard. “A rusty nail––” I repeat, nodding. My attention returns to Grant. “Did they give you a tetanus shot?”
“Got one six months ago.”
“And Roxy?”
“At the studio, in your office,” Grant quietly replies, his gaze drifting away from mine.
“You’ll be happy to know you’re being discharged, Mr. Hendricks,” declares the stout, silver-haired nurse that charges into the room. She stops short when she sees me standing next to him, her dark eyes doing a quick head-to-toe assessment of me. “I don’t know how you put up with him, Mrs. Hendricks. He’s quite a handful.”
“I’m not––”
“Babe––” Someone cuts me off with a hand over my mouth. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Remember to keep the wound clean and dry and if you feel heat, throbbing, or unusual pain in the next few day you come back here right away,” the nurse tells him.
Sam giggles while I gently peel the hand off my smiling lips. “You sure you don’t need him to stay overnight, ma’a––” The hand clamps back down on my mouth.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Hendricks. You take him with you.”
“Sign the papers, sweet cheeks,” someone murmurs in my ear.
The nurse hands me the paperwork and I sign for him.
We hit the Burger King drive-thru before swinging by the studio to pick up Roxy. As soon as I walk in, the lights come on. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Grant has hit the switch. But more importantly, the unfathomable expression he’s wearing makes my stomach feel funny and my chest tight. That’s when the smell of fresh paint hits me.
My hands move of their own accord, covering my mouth as I look around. The studio is painted. Trim, walls, everything. All that’s left to do is the cleanup and the light fixtures.
“You two did this,” I croak, tears welling in my eyes. Sam wraps an arm around my waist.
“We wanted it to be a surprise,” my sweet son announces. I run my fingers through his hair and snag them on dried paint splatter.
Grant steps into my line of sight, looking more than a little embarrassed. “The guy that did the renovation on my condo will be here on Wednesday to finish the handicap ramp and the fixtures.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, brushing away a tear that’s broken loose with the back of my hand.
“Don’t cry.” He looks pained. You would think someone is shoving pins under his nails. “I told you I’d fix it.”
“I know you did but people say a lot of stuff they don’t mean…thank you.”
Hours later, long after we’ve inhaled our fast-food and I’ve tucked Sam into bed, after I’ve walked Roxy and taken a shower, I’m in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, when the urge to give Grant a piece of my mind gets to be too much to ignore.
Throwing the covers off, I stomp down the hallway and head to his room. I find the bedroom door unexpectedly open and the lights on. With his back to me, he slowly creeps across the room to the dresser.
It says a lot that the sight of him in only his boxer briefs hardly registers anymore. The sharp cut of his massive thighs does, though. So do his sinuous calves. And that muscular butt? Have mercy. That deserves a Super Bowl ring, a blue ribbon, and a gold medal all on its own. I hear him fumbling around with something on the dresser.
“What are you doing?”
Stiffening, he turns clutching a large bottle of ibuprofen, his face taut with pain.
My anger slowly bubbles up, evident in my narrowed eyes. “I couldn’t sleep thinking about how you could’ve seriously hurt yourself, or Sam. What if he’d run into that rusty nail?” Pushing aside all the horrible scenarios running around my head, I take a deep breath and tamp down the anger. “Is it your back?”
“It’s a little tight,” he says tightly. It’s obviously more than a little tight.
There seems to be nothing wrong with his eyes, however. I watch those bright blue peepers make their way down my body, taking their sweet time. It doesn’t even faze me anymore. Not the way his gaze feels like a velvet glove stroking every inch of my skin. Not with all the dirty dreams I have of him on a regular basis. Okay, so maybe it fazes me a little bit. I’ve learned to live with it––ignore it and move on. And God knows I’m a pro at the art of avoidance.
“Lie down on the bed,” I order. Unfortunately, the floors are all wood and too hard for my purposes.
“What?” he says with a dubious look on his face. I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended.
“Relax. I’m not planning on molesting you. Get on your stomach and I’ll be right back.”
