If Dimitri didn’t stop coddling her, Natasha was going to murder him.

After she fell asleep in his bed, he woke her up and forced her to eat leftovers from the night before, watching to make sure she didn’t go back to sleep until the plate was clean.

Shit, had it been only yesterday that Dimitri had seduced her in the kitchen? Only yesterday that she’d broken her “no sex” rule? It seemed like ages ago now.

She stopped arguing with him about being in his bed. Anyway, the crutches were out of reach, and his bed was bigger. But when he insisted on carrying her into his master bathroom, she balked. He did it anyway, but she bitched at him the whole time.

“Dimitri, I’ve been injured before. I’m a dancer. It happens. Let me take care of myself.”

“Your version of taking care of yourself will land you back in the hospital,” he shot back. “You don’t know how to sit still.”

She growled, but the painkillers were still going strong, and it was easier to just go back to sleep. She didn’t even care that he was in the bed beside her.

The next morning, her ankle was killing her. He insisted on carrying her into the bathroom again while she heaped Spanish curses upon him.

He only laughed and waited outside the toilet stall. When she was back in the bed, he rewrapped her ankle, clucking over it like una viejita, and packed it in new ice packs. He brought her breakfast and would have fed it to her if she’d let him, but since she hadn’t taken her meds yet, she was in a fighting mood and snatched the plate away from him.

As the painkillers were kicking in, he kissed her forehead and placed her phone next to her. “I have to stop by the restaurant for a few hours. You should call Gina.”

She shook her head, eyes falling shut. He lifted her glasses off her face. From her left came a soft tap as he set them on the bedside table.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Why not what?” Talking was hard.

“Why not call Gina? She’s your best friend. She said she hasn’t heard from you in a while.”

“Macho, did you tell Gina I’m living here?”

“I told her you’re staying with me while you heal. She doesn’t know you were already here.””

Natasha groaned and snuggled into the pillow. “Gina’s got her own life now. I don’t want to bother her. And I need to handle shit on my own. I can’t keep leaning on her.”

His fingers smoothed over the hair at her temple. The gesture was soothing and almost too sweet. She wanted to tell him to stop, but what came out instead was, “That feels nice.”

He kissed her again, on the cheek this time, his lips lingering and his “signature scent” surrounding her.

As the painkillers drew her under, his voice was the last thing she was aware of.

“You can lean on me.”

It would be nice, but no. She couldn’t. She had to prove she could make it on her own.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. And then she was out.

The phone ringing next to her head startled her out of a deep sleep. She swiped it on and held it to her ear, gritting her teeth at the pain that radiated up her leg. The meds were wearing off. What the hell time was it? She felt around for her glasses.

“Natasha?”

Shit, it was her mother.

“Hola, Mami.” She gave up on the glasses and closed her eyes. Where was Dimitri? Not that she wanted his help, but he was the only one who knew where her pills were.

Esmeralda barreled on in Spanish. “Gina called. She said you’re hurt?”

“Just a sprained ankle. I’ll be fine.” Madre de dios, this was the last fucking thing she needed right now.

“Are you still going to be on the show? You can’t dance if you’re injured.”

“It’s not that bad, and I still have time before the show starts. Don’t worry.”

“Okay, because I haven’t bought my plane tickets yet, and if you’re not going to be in the show, I won’t buy them.”

Was this woman for real? This was about her stupid trip? God, she was so selfish.

Natasha gritted her teeth in an attempt to keep her tone measured. “I’m fine. I just have to stay off it for a few days.”

“Where are you? How are you going to do anything if you can’t walk?”

“I’m staying with a friend.”

“Who?”

Carajo. “Just a friend.”

The silence was full of disapproval.

“You’re staying with a man, aren’t you?”

“Ma, please—”

“You never listen to anything I say, but I’ll tell you, this is a bad idea. Why do you think he’s taking care of you? He wants one thing. That’s all they ever want. You can’t rely on men.”

“This is temporary—”

“¿Claro que sí? Well, what do I know. I’m just your mother. It’s not like I’ve ever been lied to by a man before.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and bit back a sigh of disgust. When her mother got sarcastic, she turned downright nasty.

“You’ve chosen a hard life. I tried to warn you away from it, but no, you insisted on being a dancer. What happened, it got too hard and you’re looking for a man to make it easier?”

“No, Mami.” Natasha rubbed at the headache forming behind her brows. “You have it all wrong.”

“We’ll see about that. You always did look for the easy way out.”

Natasha opened her mouth to dispute that she’d worked her ass off to get here, then shut it. To get where? Here in Dimitri’s bed with a busted ankle and an embarrassing number of dollars in her bank account?

“Well, heal quickly. Let me know if I should cancel my trip.”

Of course, why should she come to Los Angeles if she wasn’t going to get tickets to the premiere? Why would she come just to visit her daughter? “Seguro.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. Before Esmeralda could say something else shitty, Natasha brought it to an end. “Ciao.”

She hung up.

Natasha tossed the phone into the blankets and squeezed her eyes shut. The truth burned through her. Esmeralda was right. She was a failure. She’d ridden Gina’s coattails through school, their troupe work afterward, and out to Los Angeles. The only reason she had a place to stay now and someone to help her with her ankle was because she was fucking him.

He was being so sweet, though. Thinking to call her friends, bringing her glasses to the hospital, taking care of her . . .

Well, he wasn’t a monster. They were things any decent fuck buddy would do. They didn’t amount to anything more than that, didn’t equate to real feelings.

She threw an arm over her face as tears threatened, hot and intrusive. She didn’t have time to cry, to indulge in hurt feelings because her mommy didn’t love her and the guy she adored would never commit. Yeah, her ankle throbbed like a motherfucker, but that wasn’t a reason to cry, either. She should use this time wisely, like reaching out to people who could cover her other classes or lining up apartment visits. She was running out of time to find a new place to stay.

Turning her head to the side, a blurry orange shape caught her eye. She squinted, and just made out her bottle of meds on the nightstand, next to a water bottle. And her glasses.

Her heart melted a little. Bless him. He’d left everything she needed within reach, so she wouldn’t have to get up.

Slipping on her glasses, she picked up her phone and sent one text.

Hey, I know it’s been a while, but I have a favor to ask. I’m teaching a pole-dancing workout class and I busted my ankle. Can you cover?

She added the necessary details and sent it.

And then, because it was all too much, she took another dose of painkillers and went back to sleep.