“You need to spend the rest of the night here,” Oliver insisted. “So I can keep an eye on your arm.” “My arm,” Jack said slowly. “Right.” He was leaning back in his chair, his uninjured arm hooked behind his head. He was shirtless and smirking and irresistible. “Please,” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ve just been shot. You can’t mean to . . .” He let his voice trail off, reluctant to specify exactly what he didn’t think Jack ought to be doing so soon after being shot. But Jack wasn’t having any of that, evidently. “I can’t mean to what, Oliver?” he rumbled, his smirk dangerously
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