She hadn’t been happy about the verdict, but she hadn’t complained either.
The sound of the nasal cannula providing her with continuous oxygen support, whispered in the quiet between them, and he thought she might’ve drifted off until her hand started searching along the bed rails.
“The fuck are you looking for?” he asked, getting his ass out of the chair to be of assistance.
“The bed controls. I want to sit up.”
He sighed. “You can’t sit up. Doctor’s orders. Remember?”
“A couple of degrees won’t kill me, Kincaid.”
“It might,” he huffed, grabbing the cable remote and giving the up button a half-second press. The head of the bed went nowhere fast.
“Higher,” she ordered.
He thumbed it again, long enough to make the motor engage but not actually lift the mattress.
“Higher.”
He executed a repeat of the deceit.
She opened her hazel eyes and glared at him. “Are you fucking with me?”
He popped his lids wide in feigned innocence and immediately regretted it. Christ, his face hurt. “I would never!”
“Liar.” She waved her hand in a come-hither gesture. “Give me the remote.”
“No can do.” He shook his head—another regret—and put the bed controller out of her reach. “Eve put me in charge, and I take my patient care responsibilities seriously.”
“I’m not your patient, polar plunger. She only put you in charge because you refused to leave, and I believe her exact words were, ‘Might as well make yourself useful.’ Well, guess what—so far, you haven’t been very helpful.”
“You always this irritable when you’re shot to shit?”
“Yes. You ever have a collapsed lung from a bullet in your chest?”
“Yes.”
“Oh…” She pursed her lips before she mashed them together. “It’s dry in here.”
Her way of asking for water, he grabbed the insulated cup and helped her hold it while she took a small sip from the straw. “Thanks.” Energy spent, she dropped her head at the same time her eyes slammed shut. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I know what you’re going through, and it sucks. Feel free to be as bitchy as you like. I can take it.”
She huffed and grimaced, pressing a hand to her side. “Anyone ever call you an asshole?”
“Tout le temps, chérie. Tout le temps.”
“Ugh,” she made a sound of disgust. “Don’t talk French to me. And don’t call me sweetheart. I’m not in the mood for either one. Plus, your accent is awful.”
“It is not.”
“It’s worse than JP’s Quebecois.”
“It is not!”
“C’est vrai,” she said in a perfect Parisienne intonation. “Tu as besoin de pratiquer.”
“Of all the nerve,” he muttered, sounding exactly like his grandmother. “I don’t need practice.”
