“It’s not. Look I can wriggle my toes.” She moved her toes back and forth. But the redness of her skin worried him. That could be a nasty burn. And the pan was a heavy one.
Nope. His mind was made up.
“If you don’t want to go because you’re worried about the cost then I’ll pay for it.”
“No, I have insurance,” she grumbled.
“Then you’re going to the emergency room.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to. I can’t believe I’m such a klutz. First, I forgot I left that pan on and then I dropped it. I’ll get a new one for you.”
“Don’t give a fuck about the pan. I care about your damn foot. And you’re going to the emergency room, so stop arguing.”
18
Several hours later Millie was exhausted, embarrassed and she could feel the tingling warning of an impending migraine.
Which didn’t surprise her. First there had been the stress of burning lunch and dropping that hot pan, then the blaring noise of the alarm, plus hours spent at the emergency room under fluorescent lights, talking to nurses and doctors, having them poke and prod her.
Yeah, no wonder she was done in.
Then there was the fact that she’d never gotten to eat lunch. Not that she could eat now with how nauseous she felt.
“Want something to eat?” Spike asked.
He hadn’t said much since they’d left home, but he’d managed to intimidate the hell out of most of the nurses and doctors as he’d lurked beside her, glaring at them. She was certain they’d been rushed through because they were eager to get rid of them.
Nothing had been broken at least. Just a bad bruise and a burn. Her foot was wrapped up but she’d been told to give it some air tomorrow.
Thank goodness she could now afford health insurance. Spike had offered to pay
“No thanks,” she said hoarsely. How had she managed to mess up grilled cheese? “I’ll pay for whatever damages I caused.”
Seems she was doing that a lot. First, she owed him a bathtub and now a new frying pan.
“You’re not paying for anything,” he grumbled at her as he turned up his driveway.
Mr. Fluffy stuck his head out of her handbag and gave her a look that loosely translated to, you owe me lunch, bitch.
Mr. Fluffy could be quite mean.
Spike pulled up inside the garage. He’d driven her to the emergency room in his enormous, manly, badass truck. It totally suited him.
He turned to her once he’d parked. “Wait there.”
She undid her belt as he walked around to her side of the truck, opening the door and lifting her out. She held onto her handbag, containing Mr. Fluffy. Instead of setting her down, he carried her into the house. It still had the faint stink of smoke in the air and she groaned. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hush,” he said firmly and started for the stairs.
She squeaked. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you upstairs. While I air the place out and make us some dinner you can have a bath and relax. Or do other things.”
Oh no. He did not just go there. He did not.
She gaped up at him, but his face remained as impassive as always. She finally convinced herself that he didn’t mean to imply that she could play with her dino vibrator.
“I can walk.”