Page 43 of Direct Action

Now I couldn’t remember why. Every reason I’d talked myself into was nothing more than an excuse. If I’d pulled my head out of my ass and gone after what I really wanted, I wouldn’t be standing next to Chloe in this nursing home, completely unaware of what was going on. I wouldn’t be standing next to her as her fucking boss but as the man who had the right to hold her hand in front of her mother.

“Of course,” Chloe’s mother said, stepping closer, with her hand on offer. “Thank you for bringing Chloe. I’m sorry to pull her away from work.”

Her assumption was logical, seeing as Chloe was in her work shirt, but she’d hadn’t made it to the bar and not just because I’d waylaid her. A quick glance at Chloe’s panicked expression confirmed my guess—she hadn’t told her mother she’d been in a fender bender.

I took Andrea’s hand. The cold registered first, overshadowing the fragility, but nothing could supersede the tremor.

“No problem at all, Mrs. Baughman.” I reluctantly released her hand. If I’d played my cards differently, it wouldn’t’ve been out of bounds to offer this woman comfort. Since I’d fucked up, it would be creepy if I offered her more than a friendly handshake. “I don’t want to intrude or delay you any further.” I jerked my head in the direction of a seating area. “I’ll wait over there.”

At the word intrude, Chloe’s eyes narrowed, silently calling me out. When I declared I was staying, they flared, and I knew any second, she’d not so silently tell me to fuck off. Probably not in those words with her mother standing there, but her message would be clear. Before she could give me my marching orders, my hand went to her back, and with a gentle shove, I pushed her toward her mother.

That earned me the glare of the century.

Coming into work bright and sunny, bopping around the bar, infusing everything around her with her happiness, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever clapped eyes on. With her in my arms, eyes glazed over with desire, she was a total knockout. Chloe pissed off and glaring was cute as hell and made me want to kiss the ever-living hell out of her.

One day that option would be available to me.

But right then I’d been relegated to boss, which meant my place was sitting in the lobby while she and her mother dealt with something she hadn’t deemed my business.

That was going to change.

Never again was Chloe going to face something alone that made her eyes go hollow and hurt to imbue every fiber of her being.

Next time, I’d be at her side.

Next time, she wouldn’t jump away from me in her mother’s presence.

Next time she walked out of my bedroom and found the house full of my friends, there would be no awkwardness, no flicker of embarrassment, no keeping my distance for her sake. And she’d damn well feel comfortable in my home.

But right then, as much as I hated it—and make no mistake, I fucking hated it—I had to give her the space she needed to deal with whatever this was.

It was goddamn torture, but I walked away, leaving Chloe with her mother.

Chapter Fifteen

In life there were varying degrees of pain. In the last year I’d learned those variations were vast, ranging from tiny nicks that, while sharp at the time, faded quickly and easily scabbed over to deeper wounds that required time to heal.

Then there was the kind that flayed you open. A knife to the stomach that carved your insides, leaving you without oxygen because the pain was so immense.

Standing next to my dad’s bed—not his actual bed, the one he shared with my mother, but his new bed in the home that was not the one he shared with my mother—looking at the eight stitches down his forehead, clipping the corner of his eyebrow, was one of those moments.

The breath-stealing kind.

Even if those stitches were necessary because for one shining moment, Hank’s memory blinked back to life and he had a memory of his wife, which led to confusion about where he was and why. The confusion was laced with frustration, taking the shining part out of the moment. This also led to my father becoming disoriented, and he took a fall. Not a bad one, an unfortunate one. He was close to a table and smacked his forehead on the way down.

But it wasn’t all about me seeing my dad in that bed with stitches, pumped full of pain meds that may or may not make him more disoriented when he woke up. It wasn’t even all about my dad being in that bed. It was the sorrow and worry on my mother’s face—that was the knife plunging into my chest. It was the sadness and grief coming from her that filled the room—that twisted the blade and left me bleeding.

“Momma,” I whispered.

“The doctor assured me it looks worse than it is.”

I closed my eyes, no longer able to stomach the sight of my father.

“No concussion,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have bothered you at work.”

With that ridiculous comment, my eyes popped open and drifted to her. “Of course you should’ve. I would’ve been upset if you hadn’t.”

“You do too much—”