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“I’m going to take it anyway. All right?”
“Okie-dokie.” Her gaze moved back to the cartoon playing on the television.
Scooby-Doo. He liked that one too.
He moved into his room, then decided to experiment. “Hey, Greer?”
Nothing. Maybe she was too engrossed in her TV show.
“Sweet Potato?” he called out louder.
Still nothing.
He walked back into her room with his doctor’s bag.
“Can you give me your finger?”
“Uh-huh.”
He had to grin. She was totally engrossed in the show. It was cute.
“Who is your favorite?” he asked as he slipped the pulse and oxygen reader onto her finger.
“Um. What?” She glanced up at him briefly.
“Who is your favorite character on Scooby-Doo?” he asked.
“Oh, Velma.”
“Good choice. Mine is Fred.” He looked at the pulse reader. All good. Then he took her temperature. Slightly raised, but nothing too bad.
Relief filled him.
He didn’t want anything to happen to her. Not that he could really stop her from getting hurt or sick.
But if she was his, then he’d damn well try his hardest to protect her.
“Did you really hear me yell from all the way in here?” he asked.
When she didn’t answer, he grabbed the remote and paused the show.
“Hey!” She glared up at him. Damn, if looks could kill . . .
“I asked you a question, sweetness. You really get caught up in that show, don’t you?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Did you really hear me yell from in here?” he asked.
“Um. Shoot. No.” She held her stuffed worm tight.
That toy . . . was the weirdest, ugliest thing he had ever seen. It honestly looked like something out of a nightmare.
But there was no way he was telling her that.
He wasn’t an idiot.
“I, uh . . . shoot. I’m so sorry. I got anxious and I went and sat outside your bathroom door.”
