"Not in the mood for pasta?" He narrowed those bold blue eyes to give her a critical study. "You must've hit your head harder than we thought." "I was going to do it--get dinner, I mean. One of the fancy things you like, because--Hell." She gave up, hurried to him to wrap her arms around him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was so pissed off at what happened, at myself, I didn't think." He stroked a hand down her hair first, then gave the choppy ends a quick tug. "I'm not angry with you." "I know. You could be, but you're not. So I have to be even sorrier." "Your logic is fascinating, and elusive." "I can't pay you back with sex or salt-crusted sea bass or whatever because you're too busy taking care of me. So now I've got this black mark in my column against the bright shiny star in yours, and--" He tipped her head up. "Are we keeping score?" "No. Maybe. Shit." "How am I doing?" "Undisputed champ." "Good. I like to win." He brushed her bangs back to study the injury himself. "You'll do. Let's eat."