Page 213 of Santa Daddies
Right. She slid into a chair across from him. Yum, looked like he’d cooked roast beef and vegetables.
“Shit. Forgot the gravy,” he grumbled, pushing his chair back.
“I’ll get it.”
He shot her a look. “Might be injured, but I’m not helpless.”
She bit her lip. Shoot. What was she thinking?
Suddenly, he sighed. “Fuck. Sorry.”
Surprised, she glanced up at him. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to snap. I have . . . issues letting people do things for me. But if you could get the gravy that would be good.”
“Of course.”
Jumping up, she grabbed the gravy boat off the counter. She carried it carefully back to the table and placed it next to him before sitting again.
“This looks delicious. Thank you.”
“You haven’t been eating,” he said.
“I, um, well . . .” She thought about telling him that she’d gotten involved in her writing. But she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about her work yet. It was so important to her that if he was to make fun of it or scoff at it . . . yeah, that could cause real damage to her confidence.
So for now, it was her secret.
“My fault,” he added.
Huh?
“What?”
“I’m not that easy to be around.” He grimaced. “I was better before I hurt my leg.”
“What happened?” she asked. “I mean, if you want to tell me. You don’t have to.”
“Car accident. My leg was basically crushed. I’m lucky to have it, although sometimes I think it might be better if I didn’t.”
“It must cause a lot of pain.”
“It does, but the worst thing is having to accept help. To accept I can’t do everything myself. I know I can be abrupt and rude. But you don’t need to be scared of me.”
“I . . . I’m not scared of you. I just don’t want to get in the way. To be a nuisance.”
“You know what would be a nuisance?” he asked.
“What?”
“You dying of starvation in my spare bedroom.”
Her lips twitched.
“Eat,” he commanded.
A moan escaped as she took a bite. “Oh my god. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said huskily, giving her a strange look.
