Nah, Jim thought. Can’t be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty.

Over the guy’s shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99—no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that…considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.

“Shit, no,” Jim muttered. This was the guy?

On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!

DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. “You need a nurse?”

No, he needed a beer. Or six. “I’m cool.” Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.

“Listen,” diPietro said, “I’m assuming you don’t have health insurance, so I’ll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won’t dock your wages. Sound good?”

Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin’ obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn’t want a workers’-comp action against his corporation.

Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim’s radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who’d have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.

No wonder she’d sought out someone else.

And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn’t much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy’s designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.

“Listen, I’m going to get a nurse—”

“No.” Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. “I don’t like nurses.”

Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels…saints…whatever those four lads were.

“Well, then,” diPietro said smoothly, “what can I do for you?”

“Nothing.” Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his “boss.”