“Meds?”
She shakes her head and presses the palm of her hand to her chest. “It’s not time yet.” She mutters something about her collarbone, and I know how to make things even a fraction better for her.
“Your collarbone hurts?” I just want to make sure she’s feeling what I think she’s feeling.
Vannah nods. “I know it’s crazy. My gallbladder isn’t up here. My incisions aren’t up here. But I swear, it’s like someone’s jamming a knife into my collarbone. It’s driving me nuts.”
“It’s not crazy. It’s a thing. The gas they use to inflate you during the surgery travels. They may only make three small holes in you, but they puff you up like a balloon so they can see what they’re doing. Dad had the same surgery a couple years ago, he said the collarbone pain was worse than any of the rest of it. Like way worse.”
She nods, grimacing. “I agree. How did he make it go away? How do I fix it?”
“Ibuprofen and ice are your best shot. It’ll go away by itself eventually, lots of farting out that excess air.” I throw her an exaggerated wink, hoping to draw a smile from her, but her cheeks darken instead. “But we can try ice and meds for now.” I don’t let her protest before I’m on my way to Athena’s master bathroom, where I correctly assume her over the counter meds are stashed. Armed with ibuprofen, a bottle of water, an ice pack from the freezer and a towel to wrap it in, I head back to the living room.
“I’ll make you something to eat in a sec, but let’s try to get you comfy first, okay?”
She nods, accepting the meds and open bottle of water. “Thank you.” The pain laced around her words pinches my chest so hard I have to force in a breath. I don’t have time to dwell. I add another pillow behind her, and she uses my shoulder and bicep to pull herself into a position that hopefully brings her some comfort.
I need to feed her. “Toast? Grilled cheese? Fluffernutter sandwich? Cereal?” I might just keep listing things I know how to make until she nods at one but she’s very clearly not in the mood for bullshit right now. “There’s soup in the fridge I can heat up, and Athena said I can order just about anything you’re feeling and get it delivered to the door.”
My breath comes somewhat easier when she returns my smile. It’s a small win, but I’ll take it.
“PB&J sounds good.”
Phew. That I can make without screwing it up or burning the house down. I spent an hour on the phone to Mom earlier asking for her recipe for mac and cheese, and for the special ingredient to her grilled cheese sandwiches. I can’t help it—I’m a feeder like Mom. Except I haven’t taken the time to learn many of her secrets. I need to fix that so I can treat my girl to all of Mom’s delicious food. I know Vannah pretty well, but in the blind panic of having to take care of another human being, I drew a blank.
Athena assured me Vannah loves cheese as much as I do, so they felt like safe enough dishes to make, but I’m too nervous and worried about her to cook anything complex right now. She looks pretty green.
Part of me also doesn’t want to have to clean up her mac and cheese puke. I love her, but I’m not sure I’m at puke-clean-up level love just yet. Something plainer is probably a safer bet.
“Can do. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere, ’kay?” I toss her an easy smile and another wink before hitting the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, it’s possible I’ve made a few too many PB&J sandwiches. They won’t go to waste by any means, but I think six sandwiches between the two of usmightjust be one or two too many.
Guilt stirs in my chest as I plate them up and grab a soda from the fridge for myself. I’m going to miss the deadline with my editor. It’s par for the course these days. But if I miss it by too much, I’ll have to cancel my preorder and push back my next release. The thought alone makes my stomach churn. I should be writing, but my heart won’t let me leave the woman I care for on the sofa in terrible pain.
I already feel guilty enough for leaving her to go play hockey in Kansas City—the less said about that hot mess express the better. I can’t leave Savannah now just because my characters are being dicks and not doing what I tell them to.
“Did you use the whole jar of peanut butter?” She cocks an eyebrow, and I can’t help but laugh. Still sassy, even when she’s in pain.
“Not quite. I figured whatever you don’t eat, I’ll finish off.”
She smirks and rolls her eyes. It’s true, hockey players have big appetites. We work out a lot, we eat a lot, and we work out some more. It’s just who we are. I once saw Raffi put away eight grilled cheese sandwiches by himself. Dude has one hell of an appetite.
She moves the ice pack from her chest to the coffee table and accepts the plate, taking a huge bite of the sandwich and closing her eyes. “Comfort food. Thank you.”
“I make the best PB&J in the Midwest.”
Her eyebrow curves again.
“Okay, fine. Maybe not in the entire Midwest, but definitely the best in the UCR hockey house. I usually grill them, and add a pinch of sea salt.”
“You’re so fancy.” She takes another bite.
I wave my triangle of sandwich at her. “Damn straight. And they have to be cut in triangles. Rectangular cut PB&J should be against the law.”
Her body shakes with a giggle and then she grimaces. Shit. No laughter. Got it.
“So you write spicy books?”
