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He’d hung up on her this morning, after sounding so . . . broken. Should she call?
Or should she leave him alone?
She sent him a text before she could think better of it.
Just checking on you.
She didn’t think he was going to respond, but he did, almost immediately.
I’m okay.
She had no idea how to read that. Reassurance? Or a brush-off?
She told herself to stop being stupid. His life was in complete upheaval, and she was sitting here trying to read meaning into a message.
Her fingers slid across the screen.
Do you need dinner? I can bring you food.
I’m okay.
She hesitated at the top of the steps, wanting to call, but not wanting to push him. Another text appeared.
Thanks, though. I’m meeting someone at the Roadhouse at 7.
The Roadhouse was a little tavern that sat on the outskirts of town. At least once a month her engine company had to peel someone’s car off a tree after they’d had too much to drink.
Meeting someone?
She realized immediately that he would read that as jealousy. It wasn’t.
Well, not really.
Maybe. A little.
About a job.
Oh.
“Hannah! Are you coming down?”
Crap! She shoved the phone in her pocket.
Her mother was talking when Hannah got to the bottom of the stairs, in that engaged-yet-distracted tone she used when she was doing four things at once. “So you’re interested in becoming a fire marshal?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s part of why I transferred to this area.”
Hannah stopped short before turning the corner. She knew that voice.
She wondered if she should go upstairs and scrub off any trace of makeup.
Or maybe she should go up there and slap on a bit more. “Hannah, is that you? Could you please fill water glasses for the table?”
Damn it.
She slipped into the kitchen, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. Her mother was chopping lettuce for a salad. Her father was reaching for something in the refrigerator.
el studied him. He’d been so wrapped up in his own guilt that he hadn’t considered any of the others might be feeling it, too. “Hunter—”
