Page 11 of Knocked Up
“I knew that.”
“I don’t want you going home and being alone after they let you out.”
“I’ll stay here.”
“They’re not admitting you.”
I know that, of course. The last time a nurse came in she said I would be staying for two more hours and having some more blood drawn, but I’ve been at the hospital for well over six hours getting filled with vitamins and rehydrated. I’m already feeling better, just tired and more mentally exhausted than physically.
Actually, all the rest and lack of puking has left me feeling the best I’ve felt since the day before I took a pregnancy test. I don’t need someone else looking out for me.
“I can take care of myself.”
Braxton’s hand falls from my back and the chair screeches as he moves it back. His body looms over the bed, the bed shifting as he puts his hands on it. I don’t even have to turn over to know he’s bent over and glaring at me.
I open my eyes and peek anyway. “What?”
“You’re not going home tonight and spending it alone.”
I’ve never excelled at taking orders. “I believe it’s the twenty-first century and I can do whatever I want.”
A corner of his lips lifts, turning into a smirk I’ve seen before. It was right before I told him I couldn’t go a third round after the first two mind-blowing orgasms.
He’d tilted his head, smirked, and whispered, “Let’s see.” Then he’d attacked.
My cheeks flush and heat travels down my spine that has nothing to do with the blanket or the room temperature.
“Okay.” He pushes off the bed and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, sliding it to unlock and tapping on the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Stella to go buy food for you.”
Confusion must be stamped on my features because he finishes the text and crosses his arms. “I’ve always liked it when you tell me I can’t do something. Makes me want to prove how wrong you are.”
He remembers everything I just did, and if I wasn’t in a hospital with tubes shoved into me I’d punch him.
Or slap him.
Or grip his shirt and pull him to me.
Freaking hormones.
“I’m not going home with you.”
“Okay.” He nods.
He doesn’t mean a damn word of it. I can tell in the glimmer of his eyes and the set of his shoulders.
And whatever. He wants to take me to his place, play babysitter, waste hours of unnecessary effort, he can go right on ahead.
I roll over and put my back to him. “Fine.”
“I also remember liking it, really liking it, when you gave in.”
I’d call him a jerk, but he probably already knows it so I don’t bother.
Instead, I spend the next hour pretending to sleep until a nurse comes in and tugs out my IVs and the doctor returns with my discharge papers. He also hands me a prescription for more antinausea medicine, as well as a diet plan for people with my condition. Rules on how often to eat, what to eat when, a mixture of carbs and protein and fats that is high in nutrients and easy to digest.
