Page 89 of Whatever Lola Wants

“No, you listen,” he told her, his voice hard and angry, and she shut her mouth. “I’m not your Dom and you’re not my submissive. Fine. But you are my lover, and my friend, and if you think I’m going to let you get away with pushing yourself too hard and not taking care of yourself, then baby, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

The look on her face was one of utter shock. “I?—”

He cut her off. “Not done. Until you can walk—without holding on to the goddamn wall—you will tell me when you need to go somewhere. You will let me help you get there. Or I will tie you to the fucking bed. You get me?”

Her eyes wide, she nodded slowly. “I get you.”

“Good.” He stepped into the bathroom, ignoring her instinctive step back, and scooped her up into his arms.

“Um.” She cleared her throat as he walked back down the hall. “Where are we going?”

He stared straight ahead, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You need food.”

He strode into the kitchen and deposited her carefully on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Stay,” he ordered and strode to the fridge.

She kept quiet while he dug out Anna’s lasagna, dumped it onto a plate, and shoved it into the microwave. He stabbed at the buttons to start it heating, then turned to the cabinet for glasses. “Do you want water, milk, or juice?”

“Juice, please,” she said quietly, and he pulled it out of the fridge. He poured a glass and set it in front of her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The microwave beeped, so he busied himself dividing the slab of lasagna, sliding a portion onto a second plate, and digging out forks. By the time he slid a plate in front of her and sat down, the red mist had faded from his vision.

“Eat.”

He dug into his own pasta, then stilled when she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed, feeling the rest of his anger drain away. He turned to face her, wincing at the wary look in her eyes. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Hell.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “I think I get it. And I am sorry. I wasn’t trying to say I don’t need your help. If I'd thought otherwise, the trip down the hall would’ve cured me of that notion.”

He scowled, and she hurried to explain, warned by the look on his face.

“I just…I woke up, and I had to pee, and I know you didn’t sleep last night, so I thought I’d let you rest a while.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “So, you’re beat half to shit, you have a concussion, and you tried to take care of me.”

She shrugged, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He reached out to cup her chin in his hand. “I get that you’re used to doing for yourself, Lola. And I’m not trying to undermine your independence.”

“I know that,” she said softly.

He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “But sweetheart, you’re hurt. The doctor said you were lucky you didn’t break your leg, and the head injury could’ve been so much worse. You’ll only prolong your recovery if you don’t take proper care of yourself.”

“I know,” she repeated, and held up a hand when he would’ve spoken again. “I do know, and I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. Not just because I hurt more now than I did before, but because I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for your help. Because I am. And I’m really glad you’re here.”

He sighed. “How am I supposed to yell at you after you say something like that?”

Her smile turned impish. “I don’t know. Forgive me?”

He nodded. “Forgiven. But the next time you forget to take care of yourself, an ‘I’m sorry’ won’t cut it. You follow me?”

She nodded. “I follow you.”

He nodded once. “Good. Now, eat. After you’re fed, we can run you a bath.”

“Really?” Her face lit with delight at the prospect. “Can you help me wash my hair, too? I have to keep the stitches dry, but I’ve still got all this dried blood everywhere.”

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