We both sit up a little straighter as the shop comes into view. The lights are still on. And my boss’s truck is still in the parking lot. As soon as we stop, I clamber down and make a beeline to the door, Connor right behind me. “Mr. Wright?” I call out. “Are you still in here? Your wife’s been trying to call you. Mr. Wright?”
There’s no answer. I step around a chair, intent on walking deeper, but Connor stops.
“Albert?” he asks with a note of confusion. I follow the direction of his gaze and sigh with relief at what I see: my boss sitting on a couch and facing away from us.
“Mr. Wright...” I breathe out. “You scared us silly. Your wife’s been worried sick. Did you lose your phone?”
He doesn’t answer. As a matter of fact, he’s leaning to one side and his head is drooping a little bit.
“Mr. Wright?”
“Rosanna.” Connor pulls me to a halt. “Stay here. Something doesn’t look right.” Face taut with worry, he hurries around the showroom couch and freezes. Lips tight, he throws a look at me. “Call 911.”
Oh, no.
He’sdead.Hiswifewas inconsolable.
He’s dead. One of the few people who cared about me.
He’s dead. I have no job.
He’s dead. I’m not getting a raise.
Dead.
Connor did CPR and chest compressions while I stammered my way through an emergency call, but it was all for nothing. Mr. Wright likely died soon after I left work. Sudden cardiac arrest.
I left him there to die alone. All alone. My lips wobble as I imagine him tripping his way through the maze of furniture, short of breath and a bit confused like he was earlier. Barely making it to the couch, and then just...gone.
Gone with no one to hold his hand. Did he bruise his elbows again as he stumbled? Was he afraid? Did he know what was happening to him? Did...did he call out for help? For me or for his wife?
Oh, God. My hand comes up to lightly rest on my neck. Did he struggle to breathe at the end or was it quick? My brain wildly imagines gasping pants. The dry wheezes of a dying man. The resigned acceptance that this was the end. No, heart attacks are quick, aren’t they?
Poor Mr. Wright.
A choked sob rips from my throat as Connor tucks me under his arm and walks us upstairs to my apartment. “Come on, kitten. Almost there.”
As soon as he opens the door, I head for the couch, curling up into a ball and cradling my slightly-growing belly. I’m grieving for Mr. Wright and his family, but also for myself. It sounds selfish, but without Mr. Wright, my life is going down the drain. I look off into nothingness as Connor makes noises in the kitchen.
What the hell am I going to do now? A last resort—and I do meanlastresort—is calling my mom. Maybe she’d let me move back in with her.
No. I refuse to put myself and my babies in her toxic presence. First things first, I need a new job. But Springwell is small, and there’s not a lot of job opportunities that pay well.
A kiss to my forehead tears me from my misery. “Here, baby. You need to eat something.”
The simple egg sandwich plated and resting on the coffee table doesn’t appeal to me. Nothing does right now. “I’m not hungry.”
Connor’s silence makes me glance up, and I find him fixated on my hand. No, not my hand—my stomach. Just like the first time I met him.
But this time is different. He crouches down in front of me and gently slides his big fingers under mine, immediately giving me a brief respite from my sad thoughts. My breath catches at the warmth that spreads over my body from that one gentle touch. Without counting my one doctor appointment, no one besides me has touched the place that houses my little babies.
Face more serious than I’ve ever seen it, Connor lifts my hand to his lips for a soft kiss. Then, ever so slowly, he leans in and reverently brushes his mouth on my belly. Once. Twice.
Twice? Blinking away tears, I hold his head close to me.
“Eat, Rosanna,” he rumbles.
So I do.
