One day soon, he promised himself.
He should win some type of award for restraint under extreme circumstances. “The doc said I only needed to check you every three hours. Hopefully that can be accomplished without disturbing you too much.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll kick back on your couch and watch some TV.” Dash summoned his most serious expression. “Now, what do you say we get the shirt on you, then I’ll help you to step into your panties, then your bottoms.”
Her heavy eyes watched him with suggestion. “The drawstring yoga pants will be easy enough.”
“Good.” He wasn’t really in the habit of dressing women. Undressing them, sure. But never while worrying about causing pain.
“One thing.”
“What’s that?” Stop stroking her, damn it. He ordered his hands to be still.
“Instead of going to the couch, why don’t you stay with me? After your shower, I mean.” Her gaze went smoky. “My bed is plenty big enough.”
Shoot me and get it over with. “I can if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.”
When was the last time he’d slept with a woman without having sex? Never.
“Now just stand still and I’ll do everything.” Trying not to move her arm at all, he inched the sleeve up and over her swollen hand, her bent elbow encased in plaster, and up to her shoulder. He pulled the shirt around her back and helped her ease her right arm in.
Logan’s shirt swam on her. Dash pulled it together in the front. It was almost as loose as the robe had been.
Aware of his knuckles brushing her body, he started at the bottom, near her thighs, and buttoned it up—past the springy pubic curls, her taut belly, that narrow rib cage and her heavy breasts. “Better?”
Oblivious to the growl in his tone, she said, “Yes.”
“We need to get your sling on you, too.”
“It’s uncomfortable.”
“It’ll keep you from hurting your—”
“No.” She turned away, heading for the top of the bed.
Dash stared for a second before asking, a little desperately, “What about your panties and yoga pants?”
“Too tired.”
Torture. He moved up past her. “All right, then. Let me help.” He folded down the bed, plumped her pillow. “Sit down.”
“You’re awfully bossy,” she complained around a yawn, but she sat and let him help her ease back. Stark pain darkened her expression until she got situated, then she let out a shaky sigh and closed her eyes.
Dash sat on the bed beside her. He brushed back her bangs to see her stitches, and realized she was already falling asleep.
It was a dangerous game to play, but he did it anyway. “What about your family, Margo? Are they glad you weren’t a boy?”
“We don’t complain.”
He had no idea what that meant.
“We’re strong and independent,” she whispered, her voice fading. “You’re expected to do things right. And if you do things wrong...”
She sounded like a lost little girl, and it broke Dash’s heart. “What if you did it wrong?”
She was quiet for so long Dash thought maybe she’d gone to sleep. He stayed still, unwilling to leave her yet.
Her eyes opened. “They didn’t complain when they got me instead of a boy.”
Bastards. It wasn’t easy, but Dash kept the anger from his voice. “What did they do?”
She released a long breath and closed her eyes again. “Petersons accept what they cannot change, and they make the best of it.”
Dash watched her fade away—and decided it was past time for him to learn more about Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.
* * *
THE BRUSH OF DASH’S calloused fingertips against her cheek woke her. Sluggish, she struggled to get her eyes to open. Her drapes were shut so only slivers of daylight filtered in, leaving the room dim.
Stretched out next to her on the side of her bed, Dash rested without a shirt. Nice.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry to bother you.”
She started to move, and pain coursed through her.
Dash’s hands settled on her shoulders. “Shhh...be still.”
Reality crashed in on her. “The wreck.”
“You remember what happened?”
Using only her right hand, she touched her forehead where she’d gotten the stitches. “I remember.” As long as she didn’t move too much or too quickly, the pain abated.
“Good.” He bent and put a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She didn’t quite understand that, but it was nice so she said nothing. “I have to ask you a few things.”
Right. The neuro test because of her concussion. She gave a very slight nod.
Voice husky and deep, Dash went to a series of questions, asking for her name, if she knew how she’d gotten home, the day of the week.
Lastly he asked for her birthday.
Odd, but whatever. She told him because she wanted to return to the oblivion of sleep.
He didn’t let her.
He wanted to know if she’d gotten any gifts, how she’d celebrated...and she told him. She’d bought herself a car, and celebrated alone—as she always did.
Somehow, she knew that had made him sad. She felt it in how he touched her, the murmured words of “next time.” Meaning...what? That he’d be around to celebrate her next birthday with her?
A nice thought.
When next he woke her, he helped her to sit up and insisted she take two aspirin.
“Do you need the bathroom?”
“No.” She sank back to the bedding—with Dash’s help—and closed her eyes.
“You know the drill, sweetheart.”
He used an awful lot of endearments. When she had her wits again, she’d set him straight on that. Anticipating his questions, she said, “I’m Lieutenant Margaret Peterson. Thirty years old. I’m in my own home.”
“Good.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her jaw. “Favorite food?”
Sleep tugged at her, and she mumbled, “Mmm, maybe fried chicken.”
She heard his smile when he said, “Favorite color?”
“Sky blue.” Such odd questions, but the sooner she got through them, the sooner he’d let her get back to sleep.
“The last man you slept with?”
“I don’t know.”
Dash hesitated, then asked, “You don’t remember his name?”
“Never knew it.” She let out a long breath. “Names are a nuisance.” When she hooked up, all she wanted was escape from the duty of her own choices. And thinking that, she faded into a dream about faceless men who served a distinct purpose, no strings attached.
Unfortunately, at the height of the dream, the multiple men morphed into one—Dash.
And not a single inch of her was numb.