Stifling a guilty grin, Callum lifted a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?” “Six?” His smile collapsed at my ill-timed stab at humor. “Three. You’re holding three. I’m okay,” I said. “Were we at the hospital for so long this afternoon that you developed a crush on a nurse and need an excuse to return?” Concern still creased Callum’s forehead, but he smiled wanly. “Giving me shite even after I thumped you. Suppose you’re not too hurt.”
