“You need rest.”
“They gave me the good stuff, I think.”
She smoothed a lock of hair away from my face. “Then why don’t you sleep it off?”
“‘Kay.”
I didn’t remember falling asleep. When I woke again, my room was empty. I pushed my mangled hair away from my face.
A shadow moved in the corner. My heart lurched. The adrenaline spike was enough to make the machine next to me blip and beep a few times.
“It’s just me.” Blake’s voice came out of the dark. He stood and slipped something into his pocket before he crossed the room. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I’d never seen him so dressed down. There were three different Blakes that I’d been around. Suit, running gear, and naked. Suit and naked were by far my favorite, but I had to admit casual Blake was a bit dangerous for my well-being as well.
He wore ancient jeans and a bulky green fisherman’s sweater that made his eyes glow tiger gold in the low light. He loomed over me again, brushing his lips over my forehead, then my temple, and finally my cheek.
When he moved to my mouth, I turned away. I was a hot mess.
“Don’t turn away from me, Grace.”
“I’m saving you from my breath,” I said into my pillow.
He cupped my face, bringing my chin up so our lips met. I was used to carnal kisses from him. Deep, focused—they had more in common with mating than a simple meeting of mouths. But not this time.
He rested his forehead against mine as he brushed my lips with his.
The heart monitor gave a staccato beat. Enough that even Blake had to laugh into my mouth. “Is that what it sounds like inside you when I kiss you?”
“Smug bastard.”
“Indeed.” He moved his hand from my face, to press in on the pillow beside my head. “Hospitals suck.”
“Tell me about it.”
“For what I’m paying, they should have you on the same thread count as The Mandarin in Hong Kong.”
I looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“Grace.”
I stared at the lump where my immobilizer and busted ankle was.
“Grace,” he growled. “Look at me.”
I lifted my gaze to his.
“I don’t care how much I have to pay. I just want you taken care of.”
“I hate this.”
“I understand how it feels, but this isn’t about the money.”
“What would you know about being poor?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “My company is only five years old, Ms. Copeland.”
I frowned. I’d just assumed he’d come from money. My research hadn’t been that intensive. All I’d been able to focus on was that he’d owned my grandmother’s home—my