I looked down at the giant gray man’s sweats and the T-shirt that read ARMY across the chest.
I wasn’t a proficient liar on my best day, and the last twenty-four hours certainly didn’t qualify as good. I decided to go with part of the truth. Besides, he’d probably already heard some of it.
“There was a boy who tried to stop the carjacker, and he was shot. I went to the hospital to get checked out, and I sat with his mother most of the night. My dress was ruined, and someone was nice enough to find me some clothes.”
My vagueness was rewarded because he stood and paced the kitchen. “Your car?”
“The police have it. For evidence.”
“And you’re okay?”
I cringed when his question about my well-being came after his question about my car. I tried to ignore it as I stared at the Italian marble floor.
“Just some cuts and scrapes and bruises.”
“I suppose that should’ve been the first question I asked when you came in the door. I apologize.”
I’d shed more tears in the last dozen or so hours than I had in years, but once again they swelled in my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks.
At my sniffle, my father studied my face. “You need to take more care. I already lost your mother. I’m not willing to lose you, too.”
Then he did something that shocked me—he wiped the tears away like he never had when I was a child. Or a teenager. Or a woman. I honestly had no idea what the hell had brought about this sentimental side of him.
He stepped away and cleared his throat. “I’m late for a meeting. And you’re going to be late for work.”
“I’m calling in today. I’m going back down to the hospital to sit with Ms. Vincent.” At his confused look, I added, “The mother of the boy who stepped between a carjacker with a gun and me.”
“That seems unnecessary. We’ll pay for the boy’s treatment. That should be enough.”
I dug in my heels. “Yes, we’re paying for his treatment. Every penny. And no, that’s not enough. He could still die because of me.”
My father glanced down at his watch. “Fine. Do what you need to do. I have to go.” Without any further discussion, he turned and walked out the door I’d just entered.
I supposed I should be happy he hadn’t questioned me further. But I was too tired and wrung out to care.
Before I’d left the house, I’d put a note for my father on the desk in his office. It was the one spot he was guaranteed to visit when he came home. It seemed even at nine o’clock this morning I’d known that I wouldn’t be returning to the house tonight. Normally, I wouldn’t bother informing him, but after his strange attack of fatherly concern, I’d decided to allay any potential worries.
So the fact that my loaner Mercedes was now parked in the alley behind Voodoo Ink shouldn’t be as big of a surprise. But for some strange reason it was. My sweaty hands clenched the steering wheel as I asked myself why I was here. I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t even know if I’d be welcome.
Whatever Con and I were doing, it wasn’t defined beyond the boundaries we’d set early on. I was supposed to give him a shot. That didn’t mean I had the green light to show up at his place of work and barge in. Oh wait, I’ve already done that.
This is a mistake. I should go home. But by now my father would almost certainly have found my note. I was somewhat surprised that my phone hadn’t lit up with calls from him demanding to know where I was. But I supposed he was letting me be. Adhering to my stipulations.
I should be happy about that. But something about it bothered me all the same. One night after my narrow escape from a carjacking and he wasn’t concerned that I was out and about.
I shook it off. I was thirty years old, and my thoughts were ridiculous.
Moving on.
I uncurled my grip from the steering wheel and pushed aside any lingering doubts. I was here. And as much as I shouldn’t want to, I wanted to see Con. It had nothing to do with a deed and everything to do with needing the strength and protection he’d offered me last night.
Pushing open the back door of Voodoo, I straightened my shoulders—and the lines of my navy jersey wrap dress. My low-heeled gold sandals clicked on the black and white checkered linoleum floor as I made my way to the front counter. I felt odd coming in the back way. Like I was special somehow—when in reality I was probably only a few steps above a trespasser.
I wondered if I’d find Simon’s Charlie sitting there, but it was the same woman I’d seen before. Delilah. Tonight her dress was black with silver moustaches printed all over it.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. If I’d come through the front door, it would’ve been like déjà vu.
She didn’t wait for me to speak.
“Con, visitor.”
“I’m busy,” he called from the direction of his room.
“You might want to get unbusy—” she started, but I lifted a hand.
“It’s okay. I can wait.”