Another kiss followed, even more heated than the last, and Eli finally eased Brynne’s arms from around his middle, took her hand and led her to his bed.

Their lovemaking was passionate, since they were starved for each other, but it was profoundly tender, too. Sweet beyond anything Eli had imagined—and he’d imagined plenty—while he was recovering from his injuries.

After every pinnacle came a slow, delicious descent into drowsy contentment, soon followed by another climb.

At some point, Eli must have fallen asleep, and he awakened with a start, ribs aching a little, thinking he was back in the hospital.

Brynne stood beside the bed, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else. She switched on the lights and set a steaming bowl of chili on the nightstand, along with a plate with two thick slices of cornbread piled on it.

He was ravenous.

“Sit up,” Brynne told him, “and eat your supper.”

“Is there dessert?” he asked.

Brynne made a face, fluffed the pillows behind him when he did as he’d been told and sat up. “You’ve already had that,” she said, with mock primness. From her tone, never mind her angelic appearance, nobody would have known what a tigress this woman could be, under the right circumstances.

Under him.

“I’m a hungry man,” Eli drawled. “A very hungry man.”

“Behave or I’ll call your sister.” She sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Or Marisol.”

He laughed, took the bowl of chili in one hand and held the spoon with the other.

The stuff was delicious.

“What do you want to drink?” she asked.

Eli jabbed a chunk of cornbread into the chili and filled his mouth, rendering himself unable to answer, a man enjoying the first decent food he’d had in weeks.

“Milk’s good with chili,” Brynne suggested.

“Beer,” Eli managed.

“Scoundrel,” Brynne said, but she left the room, returning a couple of minutes later with an ice-cold can of brew.

Cord, J.P. and Dan had smuggled various emergency supplies into his hospital room, but the beer had been warm and the pizza cold.

Brynne joined him on the bed, leaning against the headboard, watching him eat and drink.

“I am a contented man,” he said.

“I suspected as much,” Brynne teased.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

She shook her head. “Festus and I had our suppers two hours ago.”

He was surprised. “I’ve been asleep that long?”

“Contentment will do that to a man,” she observed, with a nod. “Also, getting smacked on the head with the flat part of a snow shovel.”

Eli winced, but he didn’t slow down on the chili—or the beer. The stuff was ambrosia, and Brynne was even better.

“I guess you know Gretchen Lansing is still in the psych ward, undergoing evaluation,” he ventured, between bites and gulps. “As I understand it, she’s been in a catatonic state from the first.”