“She woke up,” he says. “Demanded a milkshake. Took my blender hostage.”
Relief seeps through me. The way it was looking last night, I kept fearing the worst. Couldn’t sleep a wink all night, caughtbetween worry for my patient and other, less noble types of thoughts.
“Good. That means she’s recovering well. It wasn’t a given she’d still be able to swallow on her own.”
“Clearly, you’ve never tried getting between Nikita and her midnight snacks.”
“You’re making it sound like I’d become the snack if I did.”
“Yes.” He turns to me, heat burning through his gaze. “Which would be a problem. I’m not in the habit of sharing my food.”
His rough tone turns my legs to jelly. “Are you calling me a snack, Mr. Lozhkin?”
For a second, hunger flashes in his eyes. That gray curtain melts into a haze—
