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Unfortunately, along with sucking in air came a wave of pain, reminding her that it had been a long time since she’d taken her pain meds.
Since the night before last.
Because she didn’t have a drinking problem and she wasn’t going to drive on painkillers.
Not for four minutes. Definitely not for four hours.
“Honey?” The sharp had left the little old lady’s tone, replaced by concern, by the woman moving forward and resting her palm on Raven’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“My—” She broke off, drew in a careful breath, released it just as slowly. “I’m okay,” she said, taking a careful step backward, moving away from the contact. “I’m recovering from an accident,” she managed through those slow and steady breaths. “The drive yesterday took it out of me.”
“What kind of accident?”
It was none of the woman’s business.
But Raven still found herself saying, “A fire.” Her throat got tight. “My house burned down.”
The little old lady went still, but only for a moment, because then she was pushing the door wider and slipping inside.
“Um…”
“Sit your butt down there.” An order paired with pointing at the upholstered bench in the hall. One that would have made Raven bristle, had the bench the woman slid over not been more than welcome. “You just let Auntie Pat see that you’re sorted.”
“I—” But by then her ass was hitting the cushion and Pat—excuse her,Auntie Pat—was bending and scooping up her duffle. “I’m thinking you need to take the bedroom facing the beach,” she said, moving down the hall. “It’s a little smaller than the main bedroom, but it has an en suite as wellanda much better view.”
She didn’t wait for Raven to respond, just disappeared into the bedroom (presumably the one facing the beach). Not that Rave could have replied. The pain was ramping up, so she was concentrating on breathing and not passing out.
A moment later, the woman reappeared and came back for the other duffle, leaving Raven’s backpack.
“Now,” she announced when she reappeared the second time, scooping up the last bag—Raven’s backpack—and carrying it into the kitchen. “You tell Auntie Pat all about it.”
Eight
Connor
It had been three months.
Three fucking months.
And she was standing in front of the shell of her burned-out house—though, in fairness, it was less shell and more house now that the construction had been proceeding in earnest for several months.
That had been the only reason he’d known she was still okay, thatallof them had known she was okay.
Her house was progressing.
And it wasn’t any of his business to know more—not after she’d talked to her friends, to Caleb, confirmed she was okay and taking some time and that she’d be back when she was back. This had happened an hour after the search party had begun (and just after Carter and Chance had used their PR skills to locate her).
He’d considered driving down to that beach, to make sure she was okay.
But who knew how far that would cause her to flee?
Beyond that, he’d resisted checking on her medical records, had resisted asking the nurse in the burn clinic with whom he knew she was working closely if she’d kept her appointments, had picked up her prescriptions.
Hell, asking for medical information when he didn’t have the rights to it was a breach of privacy that could get him in serious trouble.
No. More than that, it was none of his fucking business.
Shewas none of his business.
