Just thinking about all that sounds horribly painful. “Holy shit. How long were you in the hospital for?”
“Almost six months. The hospital I was at is one of the world’s leading treatment centers for spinal cord injuries. I let them do everything they could for me before I came home.”
Jesus. I can’t even imagine what he’s been through.
“That is a long time to be away from home.”
He nods and smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “It was. Before the accident, I was engaged.”
My inner green-eyed monster appears out of nowhere at the thought of him marrying someone. My lunch tries to make an appearance and I clench my hands into fists on my lap.
“Were? What happened?”
He shrugs. “I guess it was all just too much for her. We had been together almost four years and were supposed to get married that spring. We had a house, and a dog,” he says, looking at Princess, who has made her way back over to us and jumped up on the couch next to me, “and she flew over to see me immediately after the accident. She stayed for a week, but had to go back for work. She made it over a couple more times in the next two months, but somehow, I knew she wouldn’t be back when she left that last time. Things had changed between us, and she didn’t know how to deal with everything. Hell, I didn’t either. At least I got to keep Princess.”
At the sound of her name, she leaps down off the couch and jumps up into his lap. A true smile appears on his face for the first time in this conversation, and seeing him doting on that damn tiny, girly dog has me smiling, too.
Jesus, he’s a total softy.
He turns that killer smile on me. “So, are you ready to run screaming yet?”
My smile must falter because his expression changes rapidly. “I was just joking,” he says, placing Princess back on the couch, “but seriously, if this has all been too much for you and you want to skip dinner, I totally understand. It was kind of a dick move for me to spring this on you when I’m on my home turf.”
Flustered by his directness, I shake my head while I try to collect my thoughts. This is a truly gorgeous, funny, sweet, filthy-mouthed man who wants to cook dinner for me.
Of course you are staying! What the hell is wrong with you for even considering leaving?
“No, I don’t want to leave. You promised me dinner.”
Grinning at me, he turns toward the kitchen. “If you are staying, I’m putting you to work.”
Following me into the kitchen, the click-click-click of her heels on the hardwood floors is hard to ignore. I have a feeling she may be taking those off soon. I glance over my shoulder to find her leaning against the doorframe, her eyes wide and jaw practically on the floor as her eyes sweep the room.
“Holy shit. This looks like a professional restaurant kitchen…if all the chefs were midgets.” Her eyes flicker to mine, and she slaps her hand over her mouth again.
I want to fuck with her and pretend her comment offended me, but I can tell she’s really worried about it. In all truth, I find her apparent inability to process what she says before she says it refreshing and endearing. It means she’s always pretty honest and she doesn’t take the time to create a lie in her head before words tumble from those pouty lips. That will be important if this relationship is going to go anywhere.
You’re just lucky she’s still here. Not telling her was a real dick move and she has every right to be pissed.
Grinning at her, I run my hand along the island countertop. “Yeah, I had this whole place custom built for me. I knew I couldn’t return to my house when I came back to the States. It would have cost a ton, been a pain in the ass, and who knows if I would have even wanted to stay there—too much history. Gabe had already acquired the other half of this floor, so he made some calls and made sure I got this place quickly so work could start making it completely accessible. I spent a few months at my mom’s before I moved in here.”
She visibly relaxes when I fail to react to her comment and leans her hip against the counter that is way too low for her. I motion to her four-inch fuck-me pumps and smile at her. “You know, you would probably be a lot more comfortable in here if you took those things off.”
She glances down at them and raises her eyes to me, embarrassment on her face. “Sorry, I have freakishly long legs as it is, but with these on, I am more like a giraffe. I should really stay away from heels.” Reaching down, she slides them off and sets them down near the doorway before turning back to me.
“I couldn’t disagree more. You look hot as hell with those on. They make your mile-long legs look even longer; I can barely take my eyes off them.”
Blushing, she eyes me curiously. “How tall are you, anyway?”
I’m busy filling a large pot with water at the sink, but I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Six-threeish.”
At least I used to be.