Oliver's POV
"I'll call my assistant later," I told her as she moved around the room, tidying up like it was her personal mission. "I'll have him hire a caregiver so you don't have to do all of this."
Vicky froze mid-movement.
Then she turned slowly… one eyebrow raised so high it practically touched her hairline. The look alone made me feel like I'd confessed to a crime.
"Oh?" she said. "So you don't like my cooking?"
I nearly laughed, but one wrong breath would rip my stitches—plus, provoking Vicky was basically a death wish.
"I love your food," I assured her immediately. "It tastes amazing. But you have work, and you shouldn't be running around cleaning up after me. It doesn't suit—"
"So I can't clean like a normal human being?" she shot back, arms crossing defensively.
Oh God.
Abort mission.
This conversation was going straight to hell.
