He let out a long sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look, I know I’ve been MIA the last few days. I had to go to New York to see my father.”
“Is he finally giving you a promotion for all your hard work to expose the gold digger?” I snorted.
Brody paused a second and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this on the street, and I can’t stand here and watch you swaying around on a crutch with a goddamn smashed-up foot.”
“Too bad. Not everything works according to your schedule,” I bit out and realized how angry I was. I was furious, actually, that he’d left me alone for days without the slightest update on what was going on. I wiped an unwanted, angry tear off my cheek.
“Heathen,” he started.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me anything right now,” I said, then yelped as he suddenly stepped closer to me, cupped my cheek with his hand, and spoke softly.
“Forgive me.”
Then he bent at the waist and draped me over his shoulder.
“Hey! Put me down,” I protested, thumping his shoulder with my fist.
“I will, just not yet.”
He lowered me into his car and straightened up before I could smack him in the face.
He carefully raised my injured foot inside and then shut the door, rounding the car and jumping into the driver’s side.
“This is kidnapping, I’ll have you know.”
“You wanted me to move the car. I’m moving the car.”
“Not with me in it!”
“Don’t stress, we’ll be home in a minute.” Brody raced along Main Street and then took the steep hill upward into the exclusive neighborhood that housed the Sinclair mansion.
“It’s not my home, and I doubt your dad would like to see me there,” I muttered. On one hand, it would be embarrassing to get kicked out of the house by John, if he was home. On the other, maybe I could grab some of my stuff.
We passed through the imposing metal gates and drove up the driveway.
Brody got out without a word and made his way around to my side of the car. As soon as he opened the passenger door, I smacked him with my crutch.
He just chuckled, then reached inside and lifted me into his arms.
Inside, he kicked the door shut, and I listened for sounds of life.
“We’re alone,” he said.
Heat crept through me at the glint in his eyes. He looked like a starving man whose food of choice was me.
He put me down, and I smacked him again on the chest as hard as I could. My frustration at the last few days of commanding messages and nothing else was welling up and running over.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” Brody had the audacity to smirk at me. Then he stepped closer and pulled me into his arms.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Hugging the woman I love, what does it look like?”
My head swirled. Confused, hurt, hopeful. None of it made sense.
“The woman you love who was rotting in the hospital, and you didn’t bother to come and see, or call?—”
“I had to go to New York, I told you. I messaged you.”
