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“Do you want pajamas or one of my T-shirts?” he asked.
“T-shirt, Daddy.” She yawned as he helped her change into his T-shirt. He was so big, it was like a large nightgown on her, anyway. Then he helped her into bed, not tucking her in too tight.
“Daddy, I don’t think I’m going to be able to learn all the driving rules. There’s so many.”
He brushed her hair back off her face with a frown. “You don’t need to know how to drive.”
“I want to learn. Everyone else knows.” Or at least it seemed that way. And she hated feeling ignorant and stupid.
“No, they don’t. And it’s not like you’ll need to know how to drive.”
“How come? What if I want to drive somewhere?”
“I’ll take you. You won’t be leaving the compound without me. Ever. And if I’m in a vehicle with you, then I’m driving.”
She ignored the part about her never leaving the compound without him. Eventually, she was certain that would happen. There was no way they’d always be together. But sometimes, it paid to pick your battles.
“What about if we go out for dinner or to a bar and you want to drink? Then you’ll need me to drive you home.”
“I don’t drink. It impairs the senses and people make stupid decisions when under the influence of alcohol.”
“You don’t drink? Ever?”
“No. Do you?”
“No, I haven’t had a drink since I . . . since I woke up in that stranger’s bed with no recollection of how I got there.” It still made her ill thinking about it. She never wanted to be that out of control again.
“I would certainly never drink if I had you with me. And I wouldn’t take you to a bar. There would be too many unpredictable people there, it would be far more difficult to keep you safe.”
Right. Okay.
“What if you were really tired and didn’t want to drive for fear of falling asleep? That could be dangerous, right?”
“Then I would pull over into the nearest hotel and sleep.”
“Okay, sooo, what if you were sick and needed me to drive you to the hospital?”
“I’d call an ambulance or get my team to take me. But I don’t trust hospitals. I’d never go to one.”
“But if you were hurt or ill, you might have to go,” she told him.
“No, if Webb couldn’t handle whatever was wrong, then I’d just call Doc.”
“Who’s Doc?”
“He’s my personal physician.”
“You have a personal physician?” she asked. Wow, that was next level.
“Yep. He likes to complain that he doesn’t have time to come every time I get shot, but really, I know he’d miss it if I didn’t call for him.”
“Wait, how often do you get shot?”
“Quite a lot,” he said matter-of-factly.
Panic flooded her. “I don’t want you to get shot. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’m fine,” he soothed. “Doc always patches me up. Really, his life would be meaningless without me giving him something to do. All he does is patch boo-boos at Sanctuary Ranch. Those guys don’t get shot nearly as often as I do.”
