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He grunted.
“You don’t—think of her as a sister, do you, Duncan?”
He dropped his gaze to his big hands. “Fuck.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t tell me? Or no, you don’t think of Temperance as a sister?”
His laugh was raw, and his words were rushed. “No, I most definitely do not think of Temperance Madigan as a sister.”
“I see.”
“We’ve got history, her and I.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The easy mood evaporated, and his eyes turned glassy and distant. Big, bold Duncan Brady, with his ready, flirty grin, was nowhere to be found. The man beside her was a stranger, vibrating with dark, anxious energy. Something inside him clawed to be free, painfully tamped down with a hard swallow and a fist in his glossy hair.
Duncan Brady was an absolute mess over Temperance Jean Madigan.
“I don’t ever want to talk about Temperance, Red.”
“Okay, big guy.”
Duncan stood and jogged down the porch steps, disappearing into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Harry
“Hey Bradys, I’m home.” Harry dropped his overnight bag by the stairs.
Nobody heard him. Voices and muted laughter came from the dining room. Debussy played on the vintage record player in the foyer. Harry breathed deep and closed his eyes. Dad’s birthday meal had been the same as far back as he could remember. Burgers, saucy baked beans, garlicky street corn, and Ma’s homemade buttercream-frosted cake. Harry also smelled Dad’s familiar aftershave and Ma’s lemony candles.
Home.
The ordinariness of it was a relief. During the flight, he’d been unable to concentrate on the book he’d brought. He’d stared out the little plane window, imagining the miles shrinking between him and the world he’d shared with Rowan. Obsessing over how it would feel to be back in the valley without her.
When he’d first headed back West, he’d allowed himself to marinate in simmering, self-righteous animosity. He’d indulged in his anger at Rowan, his anger at himself. It dampened the misery of walking away. Soon, California itself had proved to be a beautiful distraction. Where sunsets were aggressively orange and framed by palm trees instead of dusky pink over Appalachian oak, it was easy to pretend he lived in a different reality. A place where he’d never had Rowan McKinnon, then lost her.
Just this week, Harry got word he passed the board qualifying exam. He was still riding high on that confidence boost. Sinclair’s practice was progressive and thriving, and she’d given him the space to ease back into taking patients. As a bonus, the practice was within walking distance to the Santa Monica Pier. Every Friday, he had ice cream for lunch.
Conversation halted when he walked under the dining room archway. Bodies sat up straighter around the table. Everyone was there—even Malcolm and Charlotte had driven down from New York.
Why the hell was Frankie Moreau there?
Then he sawher.
Rowan. Between Frankie and Dad, at the far end of the table.
Seeing her felt like taking a cannonball to the chest. The air evaporated from his lungs, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. His lungs locked down.
She held a tiny bundle in a footed gray sleeper with an owl face embroidered on the butt. A baby. WithRowan. For an agonizing moment, reality and fantasy clashed in his brain. It nearly sent him to his knees.
The baby curled like a comma against her chest. The thin cream sweater she wore was made of fuzzy material that created a halo around her in the candlelight. Curls were pinned up in a knot on the top of her head, giving him an uninterrupted view of her achingly beautiful face. Even from this far, he saw the thrumming pulse in her neck. Her cheeks were flushed.
