Page 157 of Angel

He cooked my meals, fed me dry biscuits and ginger tea when my tummy turned, spoiled me with foot rubs, and let me sleep for hours.

Every evening, he sat close by wherever I was, strumming his guitar and testing new chords, lyrics, and runs.

He played to soothe my nausea and lull me to rest, even tuning my grandmother’s old upright piano to serenade me.

Damn him, he was using his music to break down my walls, and it was working too.

I seemed to calm down more with him around, and while the routine he established wasn’t a complete cure, it slowed the unpredictable vomiting spells.

‘I never realized a natural process could make someone feel this miserable,’ I muttered one evening after he held my hair over a bowl.

He wiped my mouth without flinching at the mess, unfazed by the gross intimacy of it all.

‘An old wives’ tale says severe queasiness means a girl, while a lighter sickness means a boy,’ he offered with a wink.

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘It’s such a fable.’

‘Is it though?’ he grinned.

It was clear Angel was thrilled about the baby, reading books every night and sharing his discoveries.

He never left my side as he promised, and though we ignored the chasm between us, his presence made me feel so much safer.

As he cooked, cleaned, and cared for me without complaint, I began to shift my view of him and soften my anger.

However, forgiveness remained light-years away.

A week and a half later, the farmhouse’s well pump cracked and burst, stopping our water supply.

I prepared myself for an expensive nightmare.

Instead, Angel made a single, brief call.

A professional plumbing crew arrived at dawn, bringing industrial-grade fixtures to replace the entire damaged system.

By noon, they departed, sending me an online receipt marked ‘Paid in Full’.

By now I was much better and out and about on my feet.

So I marched out onto the gravel porch, holding my phone with the email in my hand as Angel stood by his truck, back from a grocery trip.

‘You shouldn’t have paid for this, Angel. I’m not a charity case.’

Angel crossed his massive arms over his chest, a stubborn line forming on his jaw.

‘The bill is settled, Rox. It’s already sorted.’

‘I don’t want your money to fix things around here,’ I snapped, my temper flaring against his immovable posture.

‘You’re carrying my child,’ he countered, his timbre edged with lethal finality. ‘You and my baby need water. End of story.’

We faced off until he arched a brow.

‘Give up yet, Rox? Or shall I have to kiss you into compliance?’

His soft, sensual rasp set me off.

Why was he so bossy and sexy at the same time?