Page 113 of Beyond the Stroke

“Wait. Why were you on the couch?” I ask, trying to collect my thoughts. “I thought you’d be in bed asleep.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why?”

He glances away, but I can just make out the slightest flush of his cheeks in the dim lighting. His eyes find mine again.

“Because you weren’t here. My brain can’t relax until I know you’re home.”

I have zero control of the giddy smile that creeps across my face. His announcement shouldn’t make my pulse pound. It should set off alarm bells, but if there are any, I’m too tipsy to notice.

I giggle, which is a sign I’m drunk because giggling isn’t something I make a habit of doing. Laughing dryly. Cackling, and scowly stares, yes. Giggling like a school girl? Not my thing.

His hands grip my waist and my entire body starts to tingle.

Cue more giggling.

“Did you have a fun night?” he asks, fixing me with his magnetic gaze while his large hands brush my wild hair away from my face.

“Yes. Until I slammed my knee into the table.”

His hand grazes over my injured knee, his thumb circling the bruise forming there.

“Is your wrist okay? From falling?” He checks it out next, but there’s no pain anywhere. I feel great. There must be narcotics in his smile.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

After his inspection of my wrist, he shifts me off him and onto the couch. I pout at the loss of contact, but he’s too busy examining my puffy knee to notice.

“Just a sec.”

He leaves me there for a minute, but comes back with one of his ice packs wrapped in a towel. Lowering down in front of me again, he wraps my knee up with the ice pack before his hands lower to my feet where he starts to take off my strappy sandals.

“You know, Wildflower, if you wanted me on my knees, you could’ve just asked.” He winks, and my belly swoops.

I want to maul this man.

That’s the tequila talking, I’m sure.

Or my brain recalling how hot it had been when he’d been so possessive over me at the bonfire earlier. I’d never felt that kind of protection before. I liked it. A lot.

Or it could also be the fact that I think I’m starting to develop the tiniest of crushes on my husband.

Husband, husband, husband.

My brain chants it over and over until all meaning of the word is lost.

But that doesn’t work. None of this works if there are feelings involved.

“You want to get ready for bed?” he asks.

I remind myself what we’re doing here.

It’s temporary.

Convenient.

Not romantic.

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