She blinked slowly, turning her head. “I don’t think you should sleep here.”
“That’s not what it looked like when you climbed on me and used me like a mattress.”
Unexpected heat crept into her cheeks.
“I don’t mind,” he said, eyes dark with something that hovered between teasing and truth. “But let’s be clear; you didn’t just use me as a mattress. You pinned me down so I wouldn’t escape. You are a strong lady, and I was a little terrified.”
There was a faint smirk tipping the corner of his sensual mouth.
She wanted to slap him.
“Eat up,” he said “You have to keep your strength up. Who knows, I may try to escape tonight.”
She looked down at the perfectly done omelette, the toast slathered with butter.
Hunger won and she dug in.
He was attentive without being fussy, and that somehow made it worse.
“Physio’s coming at ten,” he said as he handed her a coffee mug. His hands cradled hers for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.
She groaned. “Ugh. Physio.”
“I’ll help you get ready.”
“No thanks.”
“Okay,” he said, then immediately proceeded to help her anyway.
And she didn’t object.
By the time Frida arrived—a cheerful, sharp-witted woman who pretended not to notice the tension in the room—she was more annoyed by her own body than the routine.
Frida cracked jokes as she manipulated stiff joints and worked with her shoulder mobility.
“Breathe in. Deep,” she said, her accent lilting with that unmistakable warmth from Puerto Rico. “Come on, hermosa, I want to hear those lungs work.”
She pressed lightly over the healing ribs, listening for movement and reaction. “You’re stiff and that’s not unexpected. Your chest still sounds like a drowned cello.”
Faolan gave her a dry look. “Good to know.”
Frida smirked. “Hey, drowned cellos can still make music. You’ll be fine.”
She moved on to the mobility work next, gently rotating her patient’s shoulder. “You’ll be glad to know the slab comes off next week, right?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Mm-hmm. Then it’s goodbye to the straight-jacket life and back to wearing tops that make you look like Lara Croft.”
As Frida guided her through gentle stretches, her eyes flicked briefly on the doorway, where Thane stood leaning against the frame, supposedly absorbed in whatever was on his phone.
“So,” Frida said slyly, lowering her voice a fraction. “The brief said female physio only, strictly enforced.”
Faolan frowned. “Really?”
Frida nodded, voice casual but teasing. “Didn’t take long to figure out why. Your…‘friend’ over there?” Her chin tilted toward Thane. “Sounded like he’d climb through the phone line and vet me himself. Very protective, that one. I suspect he has a file on me, right down to what brand of toothpaste I use.”
She chuckled, then added with a wink. “If my girlfriend looked like you, I’d probably put a ban on male physios, too. Not that I’d mind if my boyfriend was that hot.”
