"Of course I have a car," he said mildly, looking down at the two big bowls in which he had divided the four-dozen doughnuts, pinched into bite-size chunks. "What do I do now?"
"Beat the eggs. I'm not talking about the city car," I said. "What happened to your Tahoe?" When I'd gone out with him two years ago, he'd been driving a big black Tahoe.
"Traded it in." He swiftly beat two eggs, then broke two more into a separate little bowl and beat them, too.
"For what? There's nothing in the garage."
"An Avalanche. I got it three months ago. It's black, too."
"But where is it?"
"My sister, Lisa, borrowed it two weeks ago while hers was in the shop." He frowned. "I expected to have it back before now." He picked up the cordless phone, dialed a number, and tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder. "Hey, Lise. I just remembered you have my truck. Is your car still in the shop? What's the holdup?" He listened for a moment. "Okay, no problem. Like I said, I just remembered." He paused, and I could hear a woman's voice, but I couldn't tell what she was saying. "She did, huh? Could be." Then he laughed. "Yeah, it's true. I'll give you the details when we get them ironed out. Okay. Yeah. See ya."
He punched the off button and put the phone back on the table, then surveyed what he'd done so far. "What comes next?"
"A can of condensed milk for each batch." I stared suspiciously at him. "What's 'true'?"
"Just a problem I'm working on."
I had a hunch I was the problem he was working on, but I needed to be at full speed to win an argument with him, so I let it go. "When will her car be ready?"
"She hopes by Friday. I suspect she likes driving my truck, though. It has all the bells and whistles." He winked at me. "Since you like driving pickups, too, you'll love my truck. You'll be cute as hell in it."
If I wasn't, then I seriously needed to work on my image. Because I was fading fast, I directed the addition of the remaining ingredients: salt, cinnamon, more milk, and a touch of vanilla flavoring. He mixed it all together, then poured each bowlful out into a baking pan. The ovens had already preheated, so he put both pans in to cook and set the timer for thirty minutes. "That's it?" he asked, looking surprised because it was so simple.
"That's it. If you don't mind, I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed. When the timer dings, take the pans out and cover them with foil and put them in the refrigerator. I'll do the butter sauce icing in the morning." Tiredly I got to my feet. I was almost at the end of my physical rope.
His expression softened and without a word he lifted me in his arms.
I laid my head on his shoulder. "You're doing this a lot," I said as he carried me upstairs. "Carrying me around, I mean."
"It's a pleasure. I just wish it wasn't under these circumstances." The soft expression faded from his face, leaving his expression grim. "It makes me sick that you're hurt. I want to kill the son of a bitch who did this to you."
"Ah-ha! Now you know how Sally feels," I said triumphantly. Anything to score a point, though I don't generally recommend getting shot and having a car accident to do it. On the other hand, since those things had happened, why not use them? It's silly to throw away a trump card, no matter how it got in your hand.
I brushed my teeth; then he helped me undress and actually tucked me into bed. I was asleep before he left the room.
I slept all night, not even waking when he came to bed. I woke when his alarm went off, and sleepily reached out to stroke his side as he stretched to shut off the clock. "How do you feel this morning?" he asked, rolling onto his back and turning his head toward me.
"Not as bad as I thought I would. Better than last night. Of course, I haven't tried to get out of bed yet. Are my eyes black?" I held my breath, waiting for the answer.
"Not really," he said, studying me. "The bruising isn't any worse than it was last night. All of that voodoo y'all were doing in the kitchen must have worked."
Thank God. I'd do the ice-pack thing again today, just to be on the safe side. I wasn't very fond of the raccoon look.
He didn't get out of bed right away, and neither did I. He stretched and yawned, then sleepily settled down again. There was an interesting tent thing going on just below his waist, and I wanted to check it out, but that seemed cruel considering my stated position of not wanting to have sex with him. No, that wasn't accurate; it wasn't that I didn't want to, but that I knew we shouldn't until we had a lot of things settled between us. I really, really wanted to, though.
Before I succumbed to temptation-again-I forced my attention away and gingerly sat up. Sitting up hurt. A lot. Biting my lip, I slid my legs off the side of the bed, stood up, and took a step. Another. Hunched over and hobbling like a very old person, I made it to the bathroom.
The bad news was, my muscles hurt worse today than they had the night before, but that was to be expected. The good news was, I knew how to deal with it. Tomorrow I would feel much better.
A warm soak in the tub while Wyatt was cooking breakfast helped. So did a couple of ibuprofen, some gentle stretching movements, and that first cup of coffee. The coffee helped my feelings more than it helped my muscles, but feelings are important, too, right?
After breakfast I made the butter sauce to pour over the bread puddings. It was fast and simple, just a stick of butter and a box of powdered sugar, with rum flavoring. The sugar content had to be off the charts, but my mouth watered just thinking about that first bite. Wyatt didn't resist temptation; the butter sauce wasn't cool before he'd dipped a large spoonful onto a saucer and dug in. He half closed his eyes and made an appreciative humming sound. "Man, this is good. I may keep both pans for myself."