"I wouldn't have let you come. But I'm very grateful that you did."
"I'm very grateful that you let me."
He brought the Land Cruiser to a stop while he waited for the automatic gate to swing open in front of them. When he pulled through, Alara inhaled deeply and let her eyes drift closed, glad to be back.
What she wanted to do right now was hold her daughter tight and curl up on the sofa in her room.
Her eyes popped open. What was she even thinking? It wasn'therroom. It was just the room where she was staying. She couldn't allow herself to start feeling too much at home.
Yes, Reaves and Charles seemed to genuinely enjoy having her and Zia here. She could accept that. Their presence wasn't a burden—not in itself. She could see that from their point of view.
But it didn't stop her feeling like one. And depending on what Dr. Ambrose told her next time she saw him, she could easily become much more of a burden than they should have to bear.
~ ~ ~
When they arrived back at the house, Reaves followed her up the steps, knowing that he'd missed his chance to get his questions answered, at least for today anyway. He hated that whatever Dr. Ambrose had said had spooked her—possibly more than that, he just didn't know. He wanted to be there for her, to be in it with her, but he knew damn well that he couldn't force his way in.
Inside the house, she smiled at him when they heard the sound of Zia's laughter coming from his dad's study. Before they reached the door, she reached out to touch his arm again.
"Thank you, Reaves. Not just for coming with me today, but for everything. For all of this. For you and your dad taking us in the way you have. It means more than you know."
He covered her hand with his own, awkwardly. "It means the world to me, too. And to Dad. I know it wasn't easy for you to accept our help, but I mean it when I say I'm grateful. And Alara…"
She took her hand away, but he had to say it.
"Whatever's going on, whenever you're ready to talk about it, I'm here. Don't think I'm not pushing because I don't want to know. I do. I'm trying to be respectful, okay?"
She nodded, and kept nodding, the way people do when they want a conversation to be over. "Thanks, Reaves. We should get in there. I bet your dad will be ready for a break from her by now."
He shook his head. "I'm gonna call you out on that this time. We both know that the two of them are having fun."
His heart sank when she nodded again and said, "Okay, I'll admit it. It's me that needs her right now."
"Damn, Alara, that's not what I meant. And I'm sorry. I was trying to stop you from feeling like a burden. Trying to reassure you that he really doesn’t mind."
"I know, and I appreciate it. But…"
She held his gaze for a long moment, looking helpless. He reached out, wanting to tuck one of her unruly curls behind her ear, but stopped himself, letting his hand fall to his side instead.
"Let's get in there, shall we?"
He knocked on the door before pushing it open. He and Alara both burst out laughing at the sight before them. Zia looked as though she was coated from head to toe in glitter, and Charles, clad in sparkling denim, sat beside her, looking like the world's most dignified glam rocker.
"There you are." His dad greeted them with a smile, but if Reaves wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of relief in his voice.
Zia got to her feet and shook herself like a dog, sending a cloud of glitter through the air to settle mostly on the paper—although Reaves suspected that his dad's study would never again lack a sparkle.
"You're home," Zia greeted them with a big smile. "We had lots of fun, didn't we, Grandpa Grape?"
His dad slowly pushed to his feet before attempting to brush himself down. "We certainly did, sunflower. And how about the two of you? How did you get on?"
Alara nodded. "Yes, it was…"
Reaves braced himself for thatfineword again.
She shot him a quick look before she continued. "It went well. Thank you. I had some tests. I'll have to go back next week."
The words themselves sounded innocent enough. But Reaves had some idea now of the dread that came with them.
