“I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” He rests his mouth at the top of my head, then whispers, “Your family reminds me a lot of how my family was before.”

That makes heart hurt for him. I don’t say anything else or ask any more questions. Instead, I lay there holding him for a long time, with my ear to his chest, listening to the sound of his heart so long that my pain pill wears off completely and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since the few crackers I had this afternoon.

“Do you want to order in?” He laughs, hearing another loud growl come from my stomach, and I nod against his chest.

“Chinese, if that’s okay with you.”

“That works. When did you take your last pill?” he asks when I wince as he gets off the bed.

“A little after you left this morning,” I admit, watching him strip off his dress shirt and slacks and put on a pair of loose workout pants.

“You shouldn’t wait so long between to take them.”

“It’s not that bad. Just a little pain, nothing I can’t handle.”

“It’s not something you need to handle,” he grumbles, putting on a form-fitting white tee.

“They make me tired. I don’t want my sleeping schedule to go all wonky, since tomorrow I plan on going back to work.”

“You’re not working tomorrow.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” he disagrees, shaking his head, and I let out an annoyed breath.

“I don’t want to fight with you right now.”

“We’re not fighting. I’m telling you that you’re not working tomorrow. You need to keep off your foot so it has time to heal.”

“I sit most of the day. It will be fine, Dillon.”

“Yes, it will be, since you’re staying home.”

“Does everything with you have to be an argument?” I question, tossing my legs over the side of the bed so I can stand.

“You’re the one who loves to argue, babe. This wouldn’t even be an issue right now if you’d just listen to me.”

“You’re right. You don’t like to argue. You just like to boss me around, tell me what to do, and then get pissed when I don’t listen. Even better,” I huff, standing carefully, making sure to keep the pressure off my foot, and then I grab one of the crutches leaning against my bedside table.

“You got four stitches in your foot this morning, four stitches that need time to heal properly. I’m not bossing you around. I’m concerned about your wellbeing.”

“Fine, I won’t work tomorrow, but only because I don’t want to,” I grumble, making sure he knows it’s not his choice but mine.

“Good,” he mutters, then looks at the crutch under my arm and frowns. “Where are you going?”

“The bathroom then the living room, so we can eat there.”

“We could eat in here.” He nods to the bed, but I shake my head.

“No eating in my bed.”

“No eating in your bed?” He raises a brow, and I really wish I didn’t find him so attractive, especially when I’m annoyed with him.

“I don’t like to sleep on crumbs.”

Smiling, he takes a step closer to me and places a kiss to my forehead, muttering there, “I’ll meet you in the living room with the menu.”

“I know what I want. Should I text it to you?” I ask, grabbing my cell.

“I think I can remember.”

“Okay. Peanut noodles, fried dumplings, egg rolls, hot and sour soup, ginger—”

“I’ll wait for you to come out to call,” he cuts me off, smiling. “Do you want me to help you into the bathroom?”

“Nope, I got it.” I limp, using my crutch, and head for the bathroom, ignoring the fact that he follows behind me until I’m inside and have shut the door. Once I’m done taking care of business, I wash my hands and open the door, not at all surprised that he’s standing outside the door waiting on me. “I told you I’m okay.”

“I know I just wanted to make sure.” He shrugs taking my crutch from me, leaning it against the wall next to the bathroom, before scooping me up into his arms.

“I can walk,” I halfheartedly inform him while wrapping my arms around his neck.

“You can walk tomorrow when I’m not home to carry you,” he says, carrying me to the couch in the living room where he settles me against his side as he places the order for Chinese food.

Unloading the bag of Chinese food the delivery guy dropped off twenty minutes later, I watch Dillon come back with plates and forks, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

“Are you going to really eat all of that?” he asks, and I turn to look at him and nod.

“Not all of it right now, but yes. Between tonight and tomorrow for breakfast, none of it will go to waste.”

“I’ve never seen a woman eat as much as you do,” he states, and my hand lingers over my styrofoam dish containing peanut noodles.

“Is that bad?”

“No, I like that you eat. I like that you’re not afraid to eat in front of me.”

“Oh.” I move my hand to his container of beef and broccoli and brown rice, and hand it to him, holding his stare as he takes it from me. “I work out,” I inform him, not sure why I feel the need to tell him that, but I’m suddenly uncomfortable with his comment.