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Clearly, she needed to back way off of this topic. “At the hospital this morning. No big deal after what you went through yesterday. You hungry at all?”
When his features relaxed, she knew the topic change had been the right call. “Not really.”
“You should eat something so you can take more meds.” She dropped the novel onto the coffee table, a military suspense she’d found on the shelves in Sean’s office.
His unbandaged eye looked to the book cover. “That’s a good series.”
She’d never pictured Sean being a reader before, and the image that popped into her brain of him lying in bed, shirtless—because why not shirtless?—holding a book in those big hands so he could read before going to sleep…that wasn’t a half bad image. Not half bad at all. And since she’d found a stack of books on his bedside table, she knew her thoughts weren’t just fantasy. Not that she was looking for reasons to find the sexy asshole any sexier. “Yeah? I’m enjoying it so far. Hope you don’t mind.”
“‘Course not. The rest of them should be up there but if not I’ll find ‘em for you.” He heaved himself off the sofa and made for the bathroom. His gait had none of his usual swagger. “Let me think about food.”
“’kay.”
A few minutes later, Sean cracked the door and called out. “Jesus, it looks like I took a slug while wearing a vest.”
Unsurprised to hear he was bruised, Dani moved to the door and leaned against the jamb. “How bad is it?”
Sean opened the door the rest of the way, then returned to studying himself in the mirror. Holding his shirt up above the bruising gave Dani an eyeful of his muscled pecs and abdomen—and of the series of red and purple marks radiating out from the center of his chest from the blunt-force trauma of being thrown from his bike to the street. “Geez. I’m pretty sure you’d have less bruising if that was what’d happened.”
He smirked. “Prolly. Always gotta be a damn overachiever.”
The words had an undertone of sarcasm and humor, but they underscored for Dani something she’d never really noticed about him—how self-deprecating he was. Maybe it stood out to her now because she’d spent more time with him in the past two days than she probably ever had all at once before. Together with the revelation that he’d had a rough childhood, and it just represented that there were layers to this man she’d never given him credit for…
Sean pressed his fingers against the bruising and grimaced.
“Hey, I know what’ll help. I brought an ice therapy machine. It’s in my car. Be right back.”
He nodded. “Turn the patio light on for yourself. Switch’s by the door.”
Dani retrieved her keys from her purse and slipped out the back, glad for a little space to clear her head for just a minute of all things Sean Riddick, of the realization that there was a lot more to the man than the arrogance, sarcasm, and swagger that she associated with him. Why such a realization should matter, she didn’t know, because it changed nothing between them.
The night air was heavy and close, and heat lightning flashed quietly across the sky. She grabbed the unit from the trunk of her car and returned to find Sean sitting on one of the bottom steps leading to the main floor. A voicemail played out on the speaker: “Yo, Riddick. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you and I hope you’re not too banged up. Was really sorry to hear about the accident. Shoot me a text when you’re feeling up to it.”
When he looked up, Dani smiled. “Your phone went off a million times. I was surprised it didn’t wake you up.”
He nodded. “I have a shit-ton of messages. Guys at the station.”
“That’s really nice.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, you never answered my question.”
Dani blinked. “About what?”
He waved a hand, indicating the superheroes surrounding them. “Watching some movies.”
“I’ll watch movies if you’ll eat something.”
His grin was immediate. The nurse in her was glad that something so small could so easily lift his spirits. “Deal.”
She pointed to the unit she’d brought in from her car. “I’ll set this up with some ice water and fix something to eat. What would you like?”
“Something low key.”
“I did a little snooping while you were asleep to see what you had. So, maybe grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Ooh yeah. With tomato soup. There’s some in the pantry.”
An unexpected pang squeezed her chest, because one of the memories she still had of her dad was of him teaching her to make a grilled cheese and then daring her to try it dunked in tomato soup—which her eight-year-old self had thought sounded gross until she tried it. Now it was a meal that always made her feel nostalgic. “Sounds good,” she said.
