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At the same time, Harper and Luca’s phones both pinged. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was a message on their group text thread from Conor, asking if they were still at the hospital.
She attempted a smile, but he could tell Matt’s comments had bothered her too. “I’m worried.”
Luca nodded and reached for her hand, leading her to the elevator. “Come on.”
When the doors slid open to Conor’s apartment, Luca understood Gage’s warning. The living room appeared to have been bombed by a million books, the floor covered in stacks of varying height, some so tall they were defying gravity.
“Did you guys forget something?” Conor asked as he came around the corner from the kitchen. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw them—clearly thinking his brothers had returned—then his expression morphed to concern mingled with anger when he saw Harper’s face. “Jesus.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” she told Conor.
“Don’t. Don’t downplay it. I can tell it hurts.” He walked over, gently cupping her chin, tilting her face this way and that as he took stock of her injuries. “I’m going to kill your manager.”
For the first time since yesterday, Luca managed a grin. It was a malevolent one, but whatever. It worked because on this subject, he and Conor were in agreement. “We both will.”
Conor’s gaze traveled over to him, and Luca noticed the circles under the other man’s eyes. Yesterday morning, those circles had merely been dark; today, they looked almost black.
“You haven’t slept,” Luca said.
“Not much,” Conor admitted. “I… About last night…”
If guilt had a face, it would be Conor’s right now. He raked a hand through his hair, clearly not for the first time as every strand was standing on end, completely askew. It looked as if he’d slept, or not slept, in his wrinkled clothes—and that was when Luca realized they were the same ones he’d been wearing yesterday when they dropped him off.
He didn’t have a clue what happened, but he could tell it wasn’t good. Just as he could tell Conor was struggling to explain.
When Luca played over the past couple of months, he wondered if he and Harper had made a mistake, letting Conor remain silent while they did most of the talking—about hopes, dreams, pasts, futures, childhoods. Conor had listened to all of it, but he’d contributed very little.
Harper must’ve noticed Conor’s unease as well.
And because it was Harper and her love language was food, she found the right thing to say. “Come with me.” She took off in the direction of the kitchen without even looking back to see if they were following. “I’m starving. Hospital food leaves a lot to be desired,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll make us breakfast. We can talk after.”
Conor’s shoulders had been so tight, they’d practically hugged his ears, but the moment she offered him time, they slowly relaxed…a little. He was still strung tighter than a violin string, deep lines cutting grooves in his forehead and in that little space between his eyebrows.
He and Conor remained where they were for a moment, just staring at each other, before Luca followed Harper’s lead.
If her love language was food, his was touching. Reaching out, he tugged Conor into his arms, his embrace firm, strong.
“It’s going to be okay. Whatever it is, we’re here. We’re not going anywhere,” he murmured when he felt Conor’s stiff frame begin to sag, his arms slowly rising to hug Luca back.
“Thanks,” he breathed.
When they parted, Conor sighed sadly, then headed to the kitchen, leaving Luca to follow.
Harper had already put a skillet on the stove, and she was rummaging around in Conor’s refrigerator, pulling out item after item, placing it all on the counter.
“I’ll whip up omelets. I found enough ingredients that I can make either a mushroom and sun-dried tomato or a bacon and brie. Preference?”
Luca and Conor said “bacon” in unison, and Harper laughed.
“Why did I even bother to ask? You guys and your bacon.” She put the mushrooms and tomatoes back in the fridge then grabbed a bowl to whisk the eggs. The fact she knew where everything was in the kitchen proved just how much time she’d spent in this room cooking for them.
“Luca, I’ll put you in charge of frying up the bacon. Don’t burn it. Conor, can you grab the OJ and bottle of champagne from the fridge and pour us each a mimosa?” Harper began slicing the brie, and for several minutes, the three of them performed their assigned tasks, moving around each other in a well-choreographed routine. Which again, made sense. Luca had lost count of how many meals they’d made in here, Harper issuing orders that he and Conor followed.
While she was happy to let them take control in the bedroom, the kitchen was her domain. She was going to make an excellent chef.
Once the omelets and slices of thick, crusty toast were on plates, they each grabbed one, along with their drinks, and carried them to the kitchen table.
Before he picked up his fork, Conor spoke. “I’m so sorry about last night. I should have been there for you, Harper. For both of you. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about?—”
