“That involves standing intermittently.”
“I’ll be fine.” I tried to reassure him.
His jaw flexed. “You require rest.”
“I require income.”
That landed. He didn’t like that answer.
“I can?—”
“Don’t you dare offer to give me money,” I shot back.
His gaze sharpened.
“You will not jeopardize recovery for pride.”
“It’s not pride.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s normalcy.” The word surprised even me. “I can’t just sit here and heal like that’s my full-time job,” I continued. “I need to feel like me.”
He studied me for a long moment, weighing something.
“You will push,” he said quietly.
“I won’t.”
“You will ignore discomfort.”
“ . . . . I might.”
He exhaled slowly, even if the corner of his mouth hinted at the tiniest smile.
“I don’t approve.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Silence stretched between us.
“I am taking you,” he said.
“Eleanor can pick me up.”
“I am taking you.” The furrow in his eyebrows meant business.
I crossed my arms. “You’re being dramatic.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “You will sit,” he said. “You will not lift. You will not close. You will leave when I tell you to.”
What is wrong with me? Why did that just make me so turned on that I might have to change my panties before I go anywhere?
I arched an eyebrow. “Are you my husband or my parole officer?”
“Yes.”
That did it. A laugh escaped before I could stop it. He didn’t smile fully, but something in his expression softened.
