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“Good call,” she said. She opened the door and walked out, easing it closed behind her.
He didn’t follow. Of course.
In the parking lot, she thought of her father, coming after her at the last minute. She waited, wondering if Michael would make an appearance.
He didn’t.
She told herself not to cry. She’d never needed a man before, and she sure as hell didn’t need one now. Especially not one with a box of secrets that would rival Pandora’s.
She didn’t want to go home. It was after nine, and her father would be there for sure. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see her mother, either, because Hannah was worried she’d demand truths she just wasn’t ready to hear. James would already be in bed, dreaming of SpongeBob and Legos by the time she walked through the door.
She had no girlfriends she could call. Anyone she knew was more of an acquaintance than someone she could dump all of this on. The guys from the firehouse weren’t much better.
Except one.
She pulled out her cell and typed out a text.
What are you up to?
Irish responded immediately.
Going to bed. On at 0500. :-/
She frowned.
Sorry. Talk to you tomorrow.
She locked her phone and shoved it in her bag, not wanting to see if he responded. She shifted into reverse and began to ease out of the parking place.
Her cell phone rang. Hannah sighed and put the car back in park.
The display was lit up with Irish across the screen in black letters. She slid her finger across the bottom to accept the call.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “Nothing’s wrong.” Silence hung on the line for a beat or two. “You’ve never texted me before.”
“Well, we can text more tomorrow. I didn’t realize you had an early tour.”
“It’s all right.”
A long pause, during which neither of them said anything. Hannah knew she should talk or hang up, but she didn’t like either of those options. The words were all jumbled in her throat and couldn’t make it out. But hanging up meant she was really alone for the evening.
So the silence dragged on.
Her throat tightened further. God, she’d never hear the end of it if she started crying.
“You know,” said Irish, “I really can’t sleep. I was going to make a pot of coffee. Want to join me?”
She started to decline. She actually opened her mouth to say no.
Instead, she found herself saying, “Sure. Text me your address.”
CHAPTER 26
Irish lived in a tiny two-story duplex right on the water, down at the end of a quiet street. His front yard was barely bigger than a postage stamp, and parking was along the road, but the lawn and a few bushes were kept neatly trimmed. She pulled her cap down to keep the rain out of her eyes and stepped out of her car.
