“You are not.”
“I’m just putting this in the oven.”
“You are standing on a torn meniscus,” he all but growled.
“It's a minor tear.”
“It is still torn.”
I hesitated just long enough for him to step forward and gently but firmly move me aside.
“Sit,” he commanded again.
I opened my mouth to argue. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t scold. He just held my gaze until the fight drained out of me.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes. I am angry.”
“Why? This was our arrangement.”
“Because you’re hurt and you’re not taking care of yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
He growled . . . He actuallygrowled. Maybe that’s why people call him the Beast.
I let him guide me toward the chair. He moved it closer to the island and lifted my leg with surprising care, settling my heel onto another chair, so my knee was elevated.
“There,” he said.
I crossed my arms. “You’re bossy.”
“You’re reckless.”
I huffed, but when he turned back to the oven, I didn’t try to stand again. He set the tray carefully in the oven and glanced at me.
“How long were you roasting these for?”
“About thirty minutes.”
He set the timer and turned to me.
“You know how to cook,” I observed.
“I know how to follow instructions.”
He got to work stirring in the sauce and boiling the noodles. When the veggies were ready to come out of the oven, dinner was ready to go, and I sat here just watching him. It was an odd feeling, something warm unfurling in my chest.
Once all the food was in, he got me settled on the soft couch in the living room, paying close attention to my knee.
This is not what I was expecting. He was a very confusing man, but as much as I didn’t want to, I was discovering I liked being confused by him.
Soon, he brought me a plate to the living room, followed by a glass of water.
“I would bring wine,” he said, setting it down on the coffee table, “but your discharge instructions specify no alcohol while taking anti-inflammatories.”
I groaned. “Did you highlight that part?”
