As I contemplate the appropriate wording, Marcella from the kitchen enters with our breakfast. I glance up at her, smiling with my eyes, and she leaves discreetly.
Not long after, I press send on my email and Dax emerges from the bedroom. He walks into the living room in sweatpants and a tank, smoothing a nicotine patch over his upper arm. His eyes are bright with energy, and his smile is adorably cute.
“Thought I’d kick the cravings,” he says.
“You look like you’re in a good mood today.”
He sits beside me, greeting me with a kiss. “I had the best sleep last night. Plus, who wouldn’t jump out of bed when they have this beauty to see?”
Nervous laughter simmers out of me. “Sorry I left the bed early. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s fine.” He reclines back on the couch, resting his arm over the backrest. “Did you wake up early?”
I wince. “I kinda didn’t sleep at all.”
A frown droops his sunny disposition. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
I clutch his hand. “Don’t be. I was glad you were getting some good sleep.”
“Was it your mom keeping you awake?”
I nod and huff. “I can’t believe she’s back. And worse, her arrival got between us.”
“But we’re together now. We don’t need to rehash everything.”
I stare into his gray-blue eyes, and the whites are so much brighter. “You look really good today.”
“Ifeelreally good today. All I needed was some sleep.”
“I remember in the hospital you kept blaming sleep deprivation.”
“I was running on empty because I was either working for my brother or staying out all night to avoid him.”
My heart swells with optimism. “So, you really knew you’d get better?”
He grins and winks. “All I needed was a pretty girl to give me kisses and a place to crash.”
I cuddle into him. “Well, that I’m happy to keep doing.”
I sigh out with happiness as he presses a kiss on my forehead. Maybe he really is okay. Dr. Harris wrote in Dax’s file that stress could be a factor. Perhaps being with me has dialed down his stress levels, so he is indeed getting better.
I touch my cheek, feeling the stretch from my grin. Oh my gosh, I truly hope it’s the case. I mean, why else would Dax keep insisting he’s better when medical treatment is an easy option? Who would know his body better than he does?
Breaking our happy bubble, the glass door slides open.
“Good, you’re up,” my mother says, standing with perfect posture.
Tension seizes my back as I sit up on the couch. “Morning, mother.”
She glances at her wristwatch. “Don’t you think you should be dressed by now?”
“No. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Mom glances at Dax. “Because you had company?”
“No, because of your surprise.”
“Why aren’t you happy I’m home?”
