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A promise ring. Not a bad idea, actually. She longed to be his forever Valentine. But dang it, that title—Valentine—still didn’t satisfy whatever desire frothed within Jane. A yearning for…more. More Conrad. More commitment. More everything. But, but… The curse.
Could she risk his life? Would she risk his life? The nothing curse had no power without fear.
Let fear win the most important battle of all?
“I’m on a budget,” Jane said. “Unless I throw together a new event at the Garden. The premiere event planners in town are practically begging me to get something on the books.” Well, the sisters had sent a text a few weeks ago, wanting to know if she would agree to host another town game night. “Problem is, I’m smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation and a campaign.”
“I made Raymond a sweater with his favorite color yarn,” Fiona said, dabbing at her mouth with a lace-trimmed napkin. “Make Conrad something he’ll like. A pillow, perhaps. A nice square with soft padding that will remind him of you every time he sleeps.”
Another excellent idea. And yet… it wasn’t quite it. “We haven’t heard from you, Beau. What do men like to receive from their womenfolk?”
Both Fiona and Tiffany zoomed their gazes to the only male in the room, instantly captivated and awaiting his response.
He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Trust me. You don’t want to hear my opinion.”
“Oh, but we do,” Fiona insisted, eyes twinkling.
“Yes, yes,” Tiffany said with an exaggerated nod.
“We like…things.” Cheeks pinkening, he shoveled a mouthful of Jane’s casserole into his mouth, then chewed and chewed and chewed, unable to speak.
No matter. They waited patiently, staring at him.
Finally he swallowed. “You should probably move on to someone or something else.” He shoveled in another bite, ensuring he couldn’t speak again.
When Jane’s phone rang, Beau burst out, “Thank the good Lord.”
She was snickering as she checked the screen. Huh. NewsKat. Had another letter arrived? Maybe a witness had emerged after she’d posted her article.
Jane held up a finger, the universal sign for “I need a minute,” then stepped away from the table. “Hello?”
“Jane, this is Ashley Katz.” Dread and worry coated the words.
“What’s going on?” Her stomach turned inside out. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Ryan was shot. He’s at Pinetum Regional now.”
CHAPTER TEN
Thou shall never let your boyfriend wear anything other than his campaign T-shirt, even if it's freezing outside.
–Jane Ladling’s Campaign Companion Code
Jane’s stomach churned with sickness. The second Beau parked his truck in the hospital’s lot, she shoved open the passenger door and ran, her flats slamming against the pavement.
“Look both ways,” he called.
She knew Fiona and Tiffany arrived in Fiona’s convertible because they called for her, too. But she didn’t stop, just kept motoring forward, zooming past the electronic doors and into the Emergency Room. The last time she’d been here, she’d visited Sheriff Moore after his heart attack. He’d come out better on the other side, and Jane prayed her boyfriend experienced the same results.
“Conrad Ryan,” she shouted far too loudly.
The bespeckled man behind the reception desk conveyed only sympathy. He probably dealt with distressed family and friends daily.
Jane moderated her volume. “Conrad Ryan’s room, please.”
Barrow came striding around a corner, spotted her, and halted. He projected confusion and resolve as she rushed over.
“Where is he?” she demanded, cold all over. “How is he?”
The big man heaved a sigh. “He’s fine. He’ll mend. Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
They navigated the hallways, passing curtained off rooms. Jane’s knees shook. Conrad was fine. He would mend. That was great. Wonderful. She still needed to see him. “What happened?”
“I’ll let him explain.” Barrow pushed aside a privacy curtain, allowing her to enter the space first.
And there he was. Conrad Ryan. The love of her life. Her breath caught. He was indeed her love, wasn’t he? The man she adored with every fiber of her being. There was no use denying it anymore. No forgetting it. No hiding it. He was perfectly imperfect and wonderful and vibrant and brilliant and funny and, and, and…Tears filled her eyes, her vision blurring. Her bottom lip trembled.
The love of her life sat at the edge of the gurney, shirtless, with smears of dried blood on his muscular chest. Locks of dark hair stuck out in spikes. He strained to slip a suit jacket over his shoulders. One of those shoulders was wrapped with white gauze. Pain marred his beautiful features.
Maybe she whimpered. Maybe he sensed her. His gaze flipped up. He did a double take.
“I like your hair.”
“Where’s your shirt? Never mind, I have a campaign T-shirt in my car.”
They spoke nonsense in unison. He jumped from the bed and reached out with his bandaged arm, winced, then reached with the other. Jane raced into his embrace, careful to avoid his injury.
