"Let’s eat on the couch. I know I said you have to get on your feet, but let’s not overdo it. Go sit back down, and I’ll bring you your things,” I say, walking over to the white cabinet and pulling out two white plates. "We can set you up so it’s more comfortable for you." I look over at him and see his leg is shaking just a touch as he puts his hand on the island, trying to put pressure off. "Can you stop being such a macho man and go back to the couch?”
"I’m not being a macho man," he hisses, and I see his chest is heaving like he is panting.
"I know that you think you can just dust yourself off, but you were shot and stabbed." I start to tell him as I plate and then pull open one of the biscuits, and the steam comes out of them. "But your body needs time to heal. Pushing yourself too hard will just set you back down the line."
"I’m not used to just sitting down and doing nothing," he says, and I smile at him.
"Do you want apple juice or orange juice?" I ask, and he sits on a stool at the island.
"Ethan said your biscuits are better than your grandmother’s." He smirks at me.
"I learned it from her," I say, breaking open two biscuits and then scooping up the white sausage gravy. "But I’ve put my own twist on it." I turn back and see that he is looking at me. "Do you need help getting back to the couch?"
"No." He shakes his head, and I just chuckle.
"Okay, macho man," I say, grabbing two forks. "Suit yourself." I watch him turn now and take a step and stop. “Are you sure you don’t need help?"
"No," he hisses at me and side-eyes me.
"I would watch that tone, Mayson," I tell him. "I would hate to have you watch me eat this meal.”
"You wouldn’t do that to me,” he says, turning and walking back to the couch. He sits down slowly. I walk to one of the drawers and take out two trays. I put the bowl of broth on his with orange and apple juice. I place my plate on the other one. I carry his first and put it on the table.
"Put your feet up," I tell him, and he turns and puts his feet on the couch, and even though I know he’s going to hate it, I put my arm under his feet helping him. "Now, was that so hard?" He glares at me, and I roll my lips. I hand him his tray, grabbing a dish towel and handing it to him. "Did you need a bib?" I hand him his bowl of broth, our fingers grazing when he grabs it from me. I feel the heat from his fingers even when I turn back to grab my own plate.
"That mouth of yours." He shakes his head, looking straight at me. "One of these days, it’s going to get you in a world of trouble."
I laugh now, ignoring the way my stomach just flipped as he looked at me. "You see, it shows we’ve never had a conversation," I tell him, looking sideways at him, cutting a piece of the biscuit. "Because my mouth has been getting me into trouble since I started talking." His eyes on me, I say, “You can only have a bite.” I hold the fork up for him, his hand goes to mine on the fork and I try not to shake with nerves from his touch, and he leans in.
"This is good," he says, chewing. "Better than your grandmother’s." I smirk at him. "If you tell her that, I’m going to deny it and blame it on the pills you are giving me."
I laugh at him. "I’ll just ask them for the tapes." He looks at me. "My house is wired, and everything is recorded." I do a circle with the fork in my hand. His mouth opens and then closes. "Kidding." I point the fork at him.
"Oh, you are bad," he says, shaking his head. "For one second, I believed you."
"I can guarantee you that outside is wired tight," I tell him. "Now the inside." I shrug, taking another bite. "Only time will tell."
He shakes his head and finishes eating his broth. "I have a question.”
"I’m full of answers," I tell him, leaning forward and putting my plate on the table.
"When can I shower?" He looks at me.
"Next month." I keep a straight face, seeing the way his mouth just hung open. I smile slyly at him. "To be safe, I would wait until it’s fully healed, so maybe even two."
"What?" He gasps. The way his eyes are opened so big, I can’t stop the giggle that comes out. "You little shit." He tries to snatch me, but I evade him.
"You can try to catch me," I tell him, bending to take my plate, "but it’ll be a cold day before that happens."
He looks at me, his eyes twinkling for the first time. "Is that so?" he says, swinging his feet off the couch. "You sure about that?"
"How about we bet," I tell him, putting the plates in the sink and ignoring the beating of my heart. "When you get better." I fold my arms over my chest. "You do the chase. I bet you won’t catch me."
"What do I win?" he asks me. "Usually, when the boy chases the girl, he gets the girl." He limps over a bit. "So what happens if I catch you?"
"Only way to find that out," I say, advancing on him, "is to catch the girl." I see his chest rise and fall. "Now, if you want, I can come in and wash you up."
"Do I look like I need you to give me a sponge bath?" he asks.
"Even tough guys like baths sometimes." I smirk at him.
"Not this tough guy." He folds his arms over his chest now. I take a second to see the orange flower on his arm. The bright green leaves make it pop more.
"Well, then, you can stay dirty," I start to say, and he smiles. "Or…"
"Why?" he moans out. "Why must you put an or in there?”
"Or you can have me sponge you off," I tell him, and he smirks at me.
"You really want to wash me"—he winks at me now—"all you had to do is ask.”
"You are lucky you have a bullet wound, and I can’t hurt you," I tell him, knowing right now that my cheeks are turning a bright red.
"Thank you,” he says softly when I walk back over to him and grab his empty tray.
“You’re welcome,” I say softly and walk back to the kitchen. He moves his leg now and starts to get up.
“Are you tired?” I ask, and he tries to deny it. “Go rest. I’ll come in and check you after.
I’ll come and change your bandages." I shake my head.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles now as he makes his way back to the bedroom.
"And just for that, I won’t even come running if you fall!” I yell to his back.
He laughs, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so much since we met. Trust me, I would know since I used to watch him every single fucking time. "You lie."
When he turns and walks back to the bedroom, I ignore that my heart is pounding so hard and so fast it sounds like a group of galloping horses. "What the fuck was that?" I ask, putting my hands to my forehead to check if I have a fever. "Was he flirting with me?" I look back toward the room where he disappeared.
I walk over to the sink and try not to have my head overthink it. He is just being polite, my head says. The conversation plays over and over again in my head, and I’m brought back to the first time my feelings for him went from crush to something else.