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“Umm . . .” Gemma chewed on a pink painted nail. “Are there any options that are . . . cuter?”
Mama B laughed. “Cute gets a dirt bath real quick around here. But we can check a catalogue and see what we can order.”
Gemma sent a pleading look to Bennett. It was all puppy eyes and sweetness.
Bennett was pure putty. But did it matter? Dad had left a large expense account—his usual course of action to cover his lack of being a good, present father with copious amounts of money. “Let’s get something you can use now, and then we’ll look at the catalogue.”
With a happy nod, Gemma squealed. “Compromise! I love it.”
Oh good heavens, he’d have his hands full with her every bit as much as with Nathan, just for opposite reasons. By the smirk Mama B shot him, she very much agreed. But she didn’t pursue that, opting instead to work on size and fit with Gemma.
“I thought I saw Hunter come in,” Bennett said.
“You did.” Mama shot him a look that saidwarning. Then she looked toward the stairs behind the counter. “He’s upstairs, working something out on the punching bag.”
Bennett nodded. “Can you . . .”
“Sure. We’ll hang out and try on shoes and maybe even look at some skis.”
Bennett scowled at that. Skiing wasn’t on his agenda anytime soon, and he doubted that Nathan, who loathed anything that required he detach his hand from his phone, would strap on some slippery sticks and see how he and gravity got along.
A fun discussion for another time. Rather than mull on it, Bennett took the narrow wooden stairs two at a time until he reached the loft. From a room to his left, he heard the muffled sounds of low grunts and rhythmic hits. By the speed of those punches, Hunter was working things out hard. Bennett let himself into the twelve-by-twelve room, finding Hunter stripped down to his white T-shirt and jeans, hands protected by thick gloves, and sweat soaking the fabric on his back.
Bennett’s presence unknown, Hunter launched into another series—jab-jab-cross-lead uppercut. With his shoulder, he stabilized the bag, then threw that series again—faster. His feet moved, and as the bag swung, he danced a small circle until he faced Bennett. After the uppercut, Hunter used both gloved hands to stop the swinging bag, then he braced his head on it, his chest heaving hard. A quiet wheezing filled the room.
“You okay?” Alarm seized Bennett as he jogged forward.
The wheezing grew louder, but Hunter nodded his head against the bag.
“No you’re not.” Bennett looked around the room. “Where’s your inhaler?”
“Coat.” Hunter gasped.
Bennett spotted the black coat on the floor beside the door, Hunter’s gray flannel a puddle of fabric beside it. Tossed off in a hurry, by the looks of it.
Something had sure set Hunter off.
Holding on to that clear fact to ask about later, Bennett dug in the pockets of the coat until he found Hunter’s Albuterol, then spun back to his friend, who still sagged against that hanging bag, clinging to it as if that was the only thing keeping him from face-planting onto the floor. Shaking the inhaler as he went, Bennett jogged to Hunter.
His wheezing hadn’t lessened. In fact, it sounded more severe. A full-on attack. This was what the doctor in Nevada had been concerned about—and why the navy had medically discharged Hunter. His life had been altered forever by that illness.
Bennett sucked in a sharp breath as grief surged in his chest for his friend. Life could be so unfair.
Hunter took the inhaler, but as soon as he tried to stand upright to inhale, he staggered backward. Bennett caught him and then repositioned so that he could shove him upright with his shoulder. “Come on, buddy, breathe.” Real fear set in. The nearest hospital was almost an hour away.
Luna needed Bennett’s mom—this entirely solidified that fact.
Hunter exhaled, clearly trying to control the instinct to panic. Once his lungs were empty, he put the inhaler to his lips, puffed once, inhaled deeply, and held his breath. Bennett remained at his back, feeling the man’s weak body tremble and the hard pounding of his high heart rate. Quite possibly too high. Hunter held his breath for what seemed like way too long, then exhaled and took another puff.
At least that exhale didn’t rattle the room quite so fiercely. And the frightening blue tinge around Hunter’s pale lips was fading.
“Want to sit?” Bennett asked.
Hunter nodded, and Bennett eased him to the floor. Once Hunter leaned forward, bracing his arms against his knees, Bennett was fairly sure Hunter wasn’t going to crumple into a pile of unconsciousness. Bennett settled beside him, listening with degrees of relief as his friend’s breathing grew easier.
Over a full minute passed. It felt like life hung in the balance.
“Thanks,” Hunter wheezed softly.
