“Okay.” I rest my hand against his cheek. “Please calm down. I’m okay, remember?”
“I know.” He turns his head, kissing my palm, then starts up the car. I can tell he’s still tense as he drives, but I have no idea what to say to put him at ease. As soon as we get to the house, he parks in the garage without a word and carries me inside and up the stairs to the bedroom, where he helps me brush my teeth and get undressed. Crawling into bed a few minutes later, I roll to my side and watch him strip down to his boxers.
“Are you coming to bed?” I ask when I see he’s putting on a pair of sleep pants, and not stripping down like he normally does every night.
“In a few. I just need to make a quick call,” he explains, coming over to where I’m lying, then bends to kiss me. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure,” I agree, watching him pick up his cell phone off the bed, where he tossed it. I don’t know how long I lie there looking at the ceiling, but eventually exhaustion takes over and I fall asleep before he comes back.
“Wake up, baby.”
“I swear if you wake me up one more time, I’ll divorce you,” I growl into my pillow, praying I fall back asleep more quickly this time. All I want is to sleep, but every time I do he’s waking me up, which wouldn’t be so bad, but it takes longer and longer for unconsciousness to find me again each time.
“We’re never getting a divorce.” He kisses my shoulder, and I sigh, turning to face him and forcing him to his back. “How’s your head?”
“Not too bad. My headache’s gone.”
“Good,” he murmurs, kissing the side of my head. “Sleep, baby,” he commands, lightly running his fingers down my bare arm.
“Okay.” I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. Instead, I listen to the sound of his breathing even out and his heartbeat thump against my ear as my mind replays the sound of his shout right before the car hit me.
Chapter 8
Ashlyn
Lying in the library with my bare feet on the sofa and my head on a pillow, I rest the book I’m reading against my chest and look out the window, watching the sky darken and a tree sway in the breeze. It’s been three days since I was released from the hospital, and for the last three days, things between Dillon and I have been tense. I know he’s worried and frustrated with everything that has happened, and there is nothing I can do to help put him at ease.
The morning I woke up at Dillon’s after the accident, my parents showed up, along with the police, who needed to take my statement. I found out from them that a few witnesses reported seeing a black Nissan Altima with dark-tinted windows double-parked with the driver behind the wheel. They then said the moment I stepped out into the road, the car drove toward me and swerved in my direction. The only thing that prevented me from getting hit head-on was the fact Dillon pulled me back before I took another step into the street.
I could have been killed. That may be a little bit dramatic, but maybe not, since someone wanted to intentionally hurt me. The thing that worries me the most is the police have not been able to find the car, even with the story of the incident appearing in the news the last three days.
“Hey.”
Coming out of my head, I find Dillon standing in the doorway with his tired eyes on mine. His hair is rumpled and his face is unshaven, but he still looks as gorgeous as ever in a dark gray suit, and a crisp white shirt that is unbuttoned at his neck.
“You’re home early,” I murmur, watching him walk toward me. As soon as he’s close, he tosses my cell phone onto the coffee table in front of me and lifts my feet. Taking a seat on the couch, he rests my legs over his lap, running his hand up my bare leg then thigh.
“I just came to check on you. I have to go back in a bit.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I told you earlier, I’m okay,” I remind him, covering his hand with mine and lacing our fingers together.
“I actually did, since you haven’t answered your phone the last five times I called you, and your mom said she dropped you at home over two hours ago,” he mutters, and I move my eyes to my cell phone.
“Oh.” I chew the inside of my cheek, feeling guilty that he drove home just to check on me when I know he’s been swamped with patients since I’ve been out of the office.
“It’s fine. It gave me an excuse to come see you.” He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, making my belly melt. “You washed your hair,” he points out, and I run my fingers down my still damp hair with my free hand while nodding.
“Dr. Woods said it was okay to wash it today, so Mom helped me when I got home from my appointment.”
“I would have helped you this evening,” he says as he picks up a piece of my damp hair, rolling it between his fingers.
“I know, but I didn’t want to wait.” I’ve hated not being able to wash my hair. The first thing I asked Dr. Woods when I saw her today was if I could wash it, and she said yes, as long as I was careful and dried the area after I was done.
“Did Dr. Woods say anything else?”
“Just that if no infection sets in, I should be able to have the stitches removed in ten days. And that I can return to work Monday, as long as I feel up to it.”
Frowning, he shakes his head. “Maybe I should call and speak to her. Monday is only three days away. That doesn’t seem like an adequate amount of time to heal properly from a head injury.”