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“Good. You’re an ugly crier.”
I pushed away to find him grinning brightly even in the dark, totally unapologetic. He pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up his face. “It’s almost eleven,” he told me. “Are you tired?”
“Not tired, but I could lie down.”
He put his phone away. “You want me to tuck you in?”
“No.”Yes.
He pressed his hand to my lower back, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of my sweatshirt. “Come on.”
He pointed to the door across the hall and threw a questioning glance over his shoulder, before leading me into my bedroom.
“I don’t want to hear it about what a mess it is,” I said when he flicked on the light.
“I’d never.”
I huffed and slunk over to the bed, rolling under the covers with all the dignity of a drunk sailor. With a slow spin, he didn’t hide his inspection, but he didn’t utter a word. Not even when he used his index finger to lift up the bra I had hanging on the closet handle to dry. He merely replaced it and walked out of the room.
I curled on my side, trying to find a comfortable position, though that seemed like a useless task, and after another flip-flop, Dean shuffled back into my room. He set a glass of ice water on the table next to me, along with a mug of tea, crackers, and my cell phone, which I’d left in the living room when I’d originally stumbled my way into the bathroom.
“I like blue Powerade when I’m not feeling well, but you don’t have any.” He plugged in the heating pad and handing it to me. “Should probably add it to the grocery list.”
“I’ll get right on that.” When I tried to sit up, he dropped down to the bed by my hip and helped to prop me up against the pillows. He held out the mug of steaming tea. “My sister was always drinking tea when she didn’t feel well.”
I accepted it carefully and sipped on the chamomile drink. He’d even added a squeeze of lemon.
What an aggravating puzzle this Dean Hargrove was.
He watched me take a few more sips then took the cup from me. After he set it back on the table, he shifted, allowing me to lie back down, and he did indeed tuck the covers in all around me.
He settled a hand on either side of my waist, leveling his face over mine, his eyes making a circuit of my features. He frowned at whatever he saw there. “Are you still in a lot of pain?”
“Some.”
He nodded and stood. When I thought he was finally going to leave, he didn’t. Instead, he rounded the corner of my bed and flopped down next to me, crossing his legs at the ankles.
“Are you serious right now?” I said, though it didn’t have any of my normal bite.
He readjusted the angle of his head. “You need firmer pillows.” He whacked the one beneath him. “I’ll need to see a chiropractor after this.”
“Feel free to leave anytime.”
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even acknowledge my words. But he did curl his arm behind his head and take out his cell phone. “You like the Stones?”
“The Stones?”
He slanted his gaze to me, eyebrows pinched together. “The Rolling Stones.”
“Oh yeah. I guess.”
“You guess,” he huffed and pressed play on some music app so soothing tones filled the space between us, Mick Jagger crooning on about wild horses not being able to drag him away.
Next to me, Dean scrolled on his phone, his foot absently keeping time with the music, and I moved closer to the middle of the mattress, closing my eyes. When the song ended, I asked, “Play it again?”
And he did.
CHAPTERTWELVE
