He gives me a look. “What are you talking about?”
“That guy…the one who came and did this”—I gesture at my face—“said I was a baby Dad found while stationed overseas.” I don’t mention the diplomat. In a way, my version isn’t entirely untrue. Revealing the information about the diplomat and his wife would be impossible without coming clean that Otto Bright was a traitor.
“Oh, that? Yeah, I knew you were adopted,” TJ says.
“What?” A vice suddenly clamps down on my chest.
“Uncle Otto and Aunt Sarah never brought it up, but I knew. When you got shot that time, you needed a blood transfusion. I offered, but we weren’t compatible. You’re Rh negative. Everyone in the family is Rh positive. Your father was too.”
I stare at him. “But you never said anything!”
He shrugs, all awkward now. “I thought you knew. Besides, why would that make a difference? You’re still my cousin. I don’t know what that motherfucker said, but if you think being adopted makes a difference to me, I’m gonna get insulted.”
The tightness around my chest eases. What was I thinking, letting Trey’s toxic words get to me? TJ is right. He and I are family no matter what. If the situation were reversed, I’d still love him. Feeling a little choked up, I sniff. “Thanks. Want a freshly baked apple pie?”
A ghost of smile touches his lips. “Taking a rain check. You need to rest and recover. Don’t even think about going to the bakery. You’ll scare all your customers away, and poor Victor will lose his job.”
“Is that so?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’d be a tragedy since he finally started dating that little blonde chick. Be a shame if he couldn’t afford to take her out to a nice restaurant and movie. You know, before he bones that poor girl half to death.”
Chapter Forty-One
Noah
I’m discharged on Friday. Mom wanted me in the hospital longer, probably to keep me away from Bobbi while she works on convincing Bobbi I should do my patriotic duty. Mom understands how much influence Bobbi has over me. The problem is, she and I don’t share Mom’s vision for my life and future.
She also reluctantly had to give my phone back. She had Contact2608 take my phone, ostensibly to grab evidence, a.k.a. texts between me and Trey disguised as Bobbi. I know better. She wanted me isolated from the world. Why? Who the hell knows. She works at her own pace, does her own thing and toes the line. But sometimes I have no idea what’s going through that devious head of hers.
The first thing I do when I finally get my phone back is check for texts and calls. My brothers sent me tons, and I respond I’ve been out of town shooting some cheetahs. That satisfies their curiosity—I generally go AWOL when I’m “working.”
Bobbi sent me lots, and even called. Damn it. Anxiety streaks my system. Has she been feeling abandoned and unwanted? Does she think I’m ghosting her again? She hasn’t been by the hospital because Mom moved me after sedating me. Ostensibly for security reasons, but she didn’t have to keep Bobbi in the dark. My girl will never forgive me if she thinks I’m pulling another disappearing act.
I debate between texting and calling, then settle on texting. She might be busy at the bakery.
–Me: Finally back home. Sorry I couldn’t answer your texts and calls!
Her response is almost immediate.
–TLOML: Finally! But why are you already out? Actually, don’t say anything. I’m coming right now!
Bobbi arrives within an hour, having driven like a maniac through L.A.’s horrendous traffic. She marches into the house, feet slapping the marble floor, and holding a bag from Bobbi’s Sweet Things.
I take in her beautiful presence after having missed her so much over the last few days. The bruises on her face have faded to a sallow yellow, and she’s moving well, so no lasting damage to her joints, thank God.
She opens her arms, then hesitates, her gaze dropping to my torso. I hug her tightly, bury my nose in the crook of her neck and breathe in her sweet scent. Every cell in my body relaxes in homecoming.
This is exactly where I belong.
“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” she murmurs, holding me tightly around the shoulders. “You were shot.”
“Nah. I got lucky.” I finally pull away and grin. “Clear exit. Nothing major was hit.”
“A miracle,” she whispers, her fingers stroking the spot.
“That’s what the doc said, but I think it was you.”
I lead her to the couch and sit down, pulling her onto my lap. She settles there, like that’s where she belongs. She doesn’t protest that she’s too big—one of the many things I love about her. In her worldview, a man who whines about her being too big or heavy doesn’t deserve her.
