What was it going to take to turn this guy’s life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?

Wait…crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?

He winced and massaged his temples.

“You sure you don’t want a nurse?”

Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.

Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don’t make me do that. By all that’s holy—

DiPietro put his face in Jim’s field of vision. “What can I do for you?”

As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all ta-da!

“I think I…want to have dinner with you.”

“Dinner?” DiPietro’s eyebrows rose. “As in…dinner.”

Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. “Yeah…but not like dinner, dinner. Just food. Dinner.”

“That’s it.”

“Yeah.” Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. “That’s it.”

Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.

“Dinner,” he said gruffly. “That’s all I want.”

Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here’s-an-idea would come with the meal.

As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom—and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said fuck under his breath.

Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim’s back.

Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. “Is ‘fuuuuuuck’ the way rich people say yes?”

As their eyes met, diPietro’s suspicious stare narrowed even further. “Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?”