Page 146 of The Love Operation

I turn.

Benedict’s concerned face is framed in the driver’s side window. “Cordelia, are you okay?” His voice comes muffled through the glass.

Something inside me rips open—something I didn’t even realize was sealed—and the tears come fast, boiling over like pasta water. Hissing. Spattering onto the burner. Scorching.

He opens the door. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t tell me to stop crying.

He simply pulls me up, out, and into his arms.

Chapter 38

Everyone Deserves a Five-Star Spa Experience

I latch on to Benedict like a life preserver.

We stand there for a long time, me soaking his shirt, him holding me like he has nowhere else to be.

When my sobs finally dull to breathy hiccups, he says quietly, “Do you want to go inside?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to leave Tad Cooper, but I can’t go in there.”

He studies me for a beat, and I brace for the inevitable question—Where do you want to go?

If he asks, I won’t know how to answer. I’m seconds from inviting him to sit in my car with me just so I don’t have to make a decision.

Instead, he says, “Give me your keys.”

I hand them over without question.

“Come on,” he says, guiding me toward his car.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to put you in my car, go get Tad Cooper, and then I’m taking you to my house.”

The tears come again, not from sadness this time, but from the relief of not having to be the one who knows what to do. Crying has never come easy to me. Most of the time, it feels like a luxury I can’t afford. But today, my body’s not asking permission.

And the fact that Benedict just knows—what I need, what to do—without me having to say a word, brings a fresh swell of emotion I can’t hold back.

He jogs up to my front door, and it isn’t until he disappears inside that I realize I never told him which key was which. It doesn’t matter. Minutes later, he returns with Tad Cooper in his carrier. He straps the cage into the back seat with such care, it makes my heart ache.

And then we’re backing out of my driveway.

“I need to make a stop first. Is that okay?”

I nod.

He glances over. “Ice cream. Then my parents’ house. I promised Kate and Dad I’d bring them some after I saw you, but I’ll let them know my plans changed. As long as there’s ice cream, they won’t care.”

“Oh goodness—Benedict, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to do that. Just take me back. I was being dramatic.”

He shakes his head. “Not a chance. You don’t have to go in anywhere. I’ll be quick. Then I’m taking you home—to my home.”

There’s no room for argument in his tone, no space for guilt or overthinking. So I nod again and turn to the window, letting the rhythm of the road lull me, letting someone else lead for once.

When we stop in his parents’ gravel driveway, he turns to me. “I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Actually . . . could I come in?”