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“Apparently not.”
The man’s back stiffened again, but he disappointed Malcolm by turning and leaving.
Blake’s hand settled on Malcolm’s tense shoulders. “Go walk it off,” Blake said, eyeing his still clenched fists.
When Malcolm couldn’t unclench them, he knew his friend was right for once. He turned, stomping toward the kitchen. Reggie raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Malcolm grabbed the trash. A couple of trips to the dumpster were enough to get most of the mad out. He returned to finish up with the rest of the customers.
Blake waited until after they were gone. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” Malcolm said, filling the last of the salt shakers. “Just helping someone out.”
Blake sighed in disappointment. “You’re such a bleeding heart. I was hoping you’d finally hooked up with someone.”
“Worry about your own love life. I’m sure Katie is about ready to kick you out.”
His friend’s smile was so damn happy that the last of Malcolm’s tension left. “Nah, she and I are good.”
Malcolm forced a groan. “I don’t need to hear about that.”
Blake surprised him by flushing. “Jesus, Malcolm. She’s pregnant.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Like that’s stopping you.”
But Blake didn’t laugh. “Speaking of pregnant, Katie told me. You okay?”
Malcolm nodded as he turned away to redistribute the salt and pepper shakers. “It’s a better health reason for Celia to collapse than something worse.” He shook the ketchup containers as he went, grabbing the ones that were low and placing them on the bar.
“Yeah, but I don’t know.” Blake began filling the ketchup bottles. “It’s hard. Trenton seems scared. I mean, after Emily… Fuck!” Blake smacked one of the bottles down. “The man can’t get a break.”
Malcolm stopped. “Celia isn’t going to die.”
Blake’s eyes flew to him. “Shit, no, of course not.”
The immediate denial didn’t make Malcolm’s heartbeat slow down at all.
“I’m sorry, Mal. I suck at saying the right thing.” Blake’s gaze fell as he fiddled with the ketchup bottles. “What can I do?”
The same question had been running around Malcolm’s head since Celia had collapsed the day before. He crossed back to the bar with another bottle. “Fill these faster. I have to go check on my houseguest.” Thinking about Jami’s predicament helped ease his breathing. It was a familiar problem, unfortunately. He’d helped more than one woman over the years who’d had her phone tracked.
That was the most likely explanation for how Andrew Raneer had tracked him down at the tavern. His name was linked to both properties. The urge to hit something returned as Malcolm wondered if Raneer had gone by the house first, but he reminded himself that none of his external cameras had sent an alert to his phone. He’d installed them himself after an incident a few years back.
Knowing the guy could approach Jami at any time had changed things, though, and Malcolm doubted she was going to like the changes.
Chapter 9
Jami’sheartwasinher throat as her eyes blinked open. She breathed through it, used to the feeling. Living with someone who constantly needed attention and was restless half the time had led to many middle-of-the-night wake-ups. She listened, as if she would hear her father call her mother’s name like he always did. Instead, a muffled creak filtered through the closed bedroom door.
Someone was in the house. Jami’s hands clenched on the bedspread before she sat up, careful not to let her cast thud onto the floor. She’d pushed herself too much earlier, and her armpit ached as well as her leg. She reached for the crutch anyway, but not to use it to walk. No, the hateful thing would make a good enough club.
The door on the spare bedroom opened quietly. Jami shifted down the hall as silently as she could. Despite knowing she’d heard something, she was still surprised when she saw the shadowy figure pass by the end of the hall. She held her breath, waiting for the figure to turn once more before she swung with everything she had. She would go down, too, but it’d be worth it if she took the intruder with her.
Only the intruder was fast, shifting to not be clobbered and catching her before she collapsed.
“Damn it, Jami,” Malcolm’s voice snapped, but his hands were gentle as he pulled her against his chest. “What’s the point of me texting if you never look at your phone?”
They both listened to the crutch clatter against the hardwood.
“Sorry,” Jami said into his shirt. She knew she should pull away from him, but her leg ached too much. That’s what she told herself even as his familiar scent wrapped around her, easing the tension inside. There was something with the cloves this time, something sweeter, like barbecue.
