She shrugged. She didn’t really want to go into it.
“Let me check on your foot.” He drew the blankets back.
“It’s fine. I don’t even feel it.” Which was kind of a lie. And the look he gave her told her that he knew it was.
Gently, he peeled back the bandage. Be brave. Be brave.
Then he grunted. She wondered if that was a good grunt or a bad grunt. He stood and grabbed something off the bedside table. Burn cream. Slowly, gently, he ran it over the burn, leaving tingles in his wake. Then he replaced the bandage.
Yikes.
“Need to get you some breakfast.”
“Oh, I can do that.”
“Stay where you are,” he commanded as she tried to get out of the bed.
She froze. “Oh, you don’t want me in your kitchen? That’s fair enough. Are you sure you got the smoke smell out? Maybe I should replace the curtains? They’re hard to get smoke smell out of.”
Millie felt terrible about yesterday. Not only had she set off his smoke alarms, stunk his house up with smoke and dropped a frying pan on her foot, but he’d had to spend all afternoon at the emergency room then take care of her.
She had this feeling that he hadn’t just let her sleep it off alone, either. No, she had this vague recollection of opening her eyes at one point and seeing him sleeping in the armchair.
Not that she was going to ask him about that. It would be embarrassing if it was just a dream. And she didn’t want to know if it was. Because the idea that this muscular, scary-looking biker might have slept in her room, watching over her . . . well, that was a thought that would keep her warm at night for a long time to come.
So yeah, even if it was made up, she was going to keep that memory close to her heart.
“For the last time, don’t give a fuck about the kitchen, the curtains, the flooring, any of it. But you also won’t be trying to cook again. The stove is off-limits to you.”
Chagrined, she bit her lip.
“Little girls don’t cook.”
Her eyes widened. Why did he say that? Did he mean that he wanted to . . . no, that wasn’t right?
“Read that stress can trigger migraines. So can skipping meals and not getting enough sleep.”
He’d . . . he’d read all that? Why?
So he can take care of you better? That was silly, though. He barely knew her.
“You read up on migraines?”
He frowned “Was worried about you.
Didn’t know how to take care of you. Called a doctor I know. He sent me some stuff on migraines. Told me best idea was to keep you in dark and quiet.”
“Thank you. That really was the best thing. I’m so sorry I vomited everywhere. I should go clean that up.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Do you think I left it?”
“Oh no. Of course not. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking entirely clearly. You must think I’m an idiot. Bet you’re regretting bringing me here now huh? I understand if you want to—”
He sighed and leaned forward, taking her nervous hands in his. “Stop.”
She ceased her babbling. It was a relief to have him stop her before she said something truly idiotic.
“Do you remember what you called me last night?”