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“I don’t like the pills. They make me wonky,” he complained with a scowl as I handed him the cup.

I stared him down. “I. Don’t. Care. The doctor said taking these was a condition of going home. I want you home. Ipso facto, you take the pills. Swallow.”

He grudgingly accepted them from me, took a sip, and swallowed. “There, nurse. See? I follow orders.”

My phone buzzed again, and he looked over with interest. “Who is it?”

I sighed. “My mother.”

“What does she want?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been ignoring her calls,” I admitted.

“Mel-e-na.”

“Jim-my.”

I blew out a breath. “Fine.” I swiped to accept the call. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Just trying to nail down details for our visit. Next weekend still works for you and Jimmy?”

“Actually,” I started, and Jimmy interrupted, “It’s great, Mrs. Nemitz.”

“Call me, Silvia,” she reminded.

“Silvia. We can’t wait to see you,” Jimmy enthused loudly from his prone position on the couch.

I gave him my best death glare. Except I wanted him healthy. Darn him. First time I’d really been conflicted about my death glare. He shrugged and I sighed.

“Mom, we’re excited to have you. Heads up, Jimmy’s had a bit of an accident at work, so he’ll be on crutches when you’re here. He may not be able to cook as much as he planned.”

“I can still cook,” Jimmy claimed.

Simultaneously, my mom exclaimed, “I’d love to get my hands on that kitchen. Tell him not to worry.”

He groaned softly, and I smiled in victory. He had no idea what he was in for.

“Thanks, Mom. We’ll see you next weekend.”

I ended the call, and he gave me a look. “What? We’ll probably need her help in the kitchen.”

“I’m perfectly capable of cooking for us.”

My brows raised. “Under normal circumstances, sure. However, these are not normal circumstances.” I tapped his leg cast. “You need to stay off your feet. Doctor’s orders.”

He frowned. “I can still move around the kitchen enough to cook for the holidays.”

I frowned back. “Occasionallyonly. Again, doctor’s orders. Quit being a pain.”

He gasped and brought a hand to his chest. “I never!”

I gasped right back. “You always!”

He muttered into his glass of water as he took another sip. “Are you my wife, or my jailer?”

I wiggled my brows at him. “Both have possibilities. Keep it up, my miscreant.”

“Miscreant? Who are you calling a miscreant? Who even says that?”