Staring down at his Porsche, he hoped it would still be parked there in the morning—unstripped. Rubbing his neck, he walked back to Caron’s bedroom door. In the morning, she’d be mad as a hornet at him for staying. But he couldn’t leave. What if she got sick again? His hand on the knob, he bent to the door and listened. No noise. Nothing stirring. He peeked in and saw her curled on her side, in the same position she’d been in hours ago. Winding back to the sofa, he bumped his shin on the corner of the coffee table and plopped down, then shifted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. But he’d already proven that six feet of man couldn’t get comfortable on five feet of sofa. He propped his head on the armrest, scrunched up his legs and, giving up on finding a place to put his arm, crooked it over his chest. Man, he’d be stiff for a week. A lump tortured his spine. The sofa had more lumps than his mother’s gravy. Helga, now, could make good gravy. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d missed dinner.
