“You’re also going to learn, I have a scary side too,” she said. “And you’re going to see it if you keep telling me you’re not hungry. Three meals a day and snacks in between—no exception. I need you as strong as possible to fight this. So, what are you in the mood for?”

I was in too much pain to be hungry. “How about a milkshake?”

“Google can help me accomplish that, hopefully.” She walked toward the door, turning toward me, beaming, before she reached it. “But I just have to say, dessert for breakfast is a style I fully support.”

Once she left, I found my cell on the nightstand, imagining the texts my colleagues and assistant had sent when Whitney canceled on them. There were so many; I didn’t have it in me to go through each one, but a message from Smith caught my attention.

Smith: What’s up? No dinner? Everything all right?

Me: All good, man. Whitney just wants me to take it easy today.

Smith: Can I swing by tomorrow?

Me: You’ll have to clear it with the boss first, lol.

Smith: Damn.

Smith: If she gives a good sponge bath, let her know I’m single.

Me: Not a fucking chance.

Smith: Ahhh, the truth finally comes out. I had a feeling anyway. Joe told me he met her when he came by the hospital last night, said she’s sexy as hell.

Me: She’s a hell of a lot more than that.

“Oreo or strawberry cheesecake?” Whitney asked from the doorway.

I looked up from my phone, feeling the heat of her eyes as she held a pint of each flavor in her hands. “You know the answer to that.”

She grinned. “I brought some cookies from that delicious bakery. Do you want one to go with it?”

“I don’t think I can turn down that offer.”

As she walked out, the long shirt hid her ass, but hints of her legs were teasing me. I watched until she disappeared and then glanced back at my phone.

Smith: I’ll reach out to the boss and ask about tomorrow. Be a good patient today … unless you’re hoping for a punishment.

Me: You know me too fucking well.

Seven

“Are you ready to take a shower?” Whitney asked as she walked into my room the next morning. Before I even answered, she was already fetching the wheelchair and rolling it next to the bed. “Since you were too tired to do one yesterday afternoon, I thought we should do it first thing today.”

I wanted her soapy hands on my body again, but as I stared at the blue vinyl seat—a contraption that made every bone ache—I feared this would be my future, and my anger boiled as loudly as my nerves. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”