Page 45 of Mr. Fixer Upper
Gannon slid an arm under her and carefully pulled her against him, her back to his chest, her ass nestled against his thighs. “Better?” he asked.
He thought she nodded.
“Gannon?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
“Even though you don’t need anyone to take care of you?”
“Yeah. It was still nice.”
“You know, princess, you didn’t have to go to these lengths to get out of having sex with me tonight.”
“Har har, ass.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paige woke slowly, advancing into different stages of awareness. She was warm and safe. But she froze when the soft snore reached her ear and she became aware of strong arms wrapped around her.
Gannon.
He’d helped her shower, dried her hair, changed her dressings, and fed her. And then he’d climbed into bed next to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She let that soak in, ready to feel the humiliation of him seeing her at her most vulnerable. But that thought was derailed by the twitch of what promised to be an exceptional erection prodding her back.
She’d witnessed it with her own eyes last night. It was official. There wasn’t an inch of Gannon King that wasn’t impressive. And what should have been a night of mind-blowing pleasure for the two of them—because Gannon didn’t half-ass anything—had been downgraded to an unfulfilling evening of nursemaid and patient.
That sucked.
So did the cacophony of aches and pains that began to plague her as they settled into her consciousness like a cloud of rabid locusts. There were so many of them she couldn’t identify or isolate them all. Paige felt like she had the flu times a million.
She lifted her head ever so slightly and could tell that the world beyond her room was still dark outside. She should wake Gannon, send him back to his room. But she was so comfortable. The steadiness of his breathing, the slow thrum of his heartbeat, soothed her. She wasn’t alone.
He stirred, burying his face in her hair. “Go back to sleep, honey,” he murmured. And for once in her life, she did what she was told.
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Gannon woke to the incessant ringing of a phone and cracked open a bleary eye. Paige was cradled in his arms, and he could just make out a lightening in the sky around the edges of the curtains.
Blindly, he reached for the phone and sat up, easing his arm out from under Paige.
“’Lo?” he rasped quietly into the phone.
“I’d like to speak to my daughter who didn’t bother telling me she’d been in an accident yesterday.” The voice had more than enough ice to refreeze a melting iceberg.
“You must be, Dr. St. James,” Gannon yawned.
“And who are you?”
“Gannon King, your daughter’s…,” he glanced back at the silhouette of Paige’s sleeping form next to him, “friend.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would put Paige on the phone,” the woman said icily. Gannon imagined it was the tone she reserved for slow valets or dimwitted servers.
“She’s sleeping—”
“I never should have let her take that ridiculous job. Reality television,” Dr. St. James gave an inelegant snort. “She could have gone into medicine like her sister or —”
“Look, Dr. St. James. I understand that you’re pissed off and worried, but you’re a psychologist, right?”
