But that would’ve meant I’d have been robbed of those two hours of having something I’d never again have—holding Shea while she slept—and fuck it all if I had to give up that.
Outside, it was quiet, zero movement. I sucked in a deep breath and stepped out. Polished hardwood floors creaked beneath my feet, and my attention darted to the large, ornate frames that housed old faded pictures along the wall. Placed at the center was a black and white wedding photo of a couple I could only assume were Shea’s grandparents. The man was in a formal military suit, the young woman who was just as striking as Shea, in a simple white-skirted suit, her hair coiled and topped with a little hat with a swath of tulle attached to it.
A bunch of photos were placed around it, growing out.
A single child in a photo that was clearly old, but new enough to be in color. Another with a group of three…three sisters that had to belong to that old couple. A young boy. Another after he’d become a man. Even newer still a group of what had to be grandkids. I stepped closer, searching the faces, picking out Shea right away, all sweet smiles and big curly hair, kind of like her daughter’s.
Then there was a large photo. New. But it too had been placed in one of those old frames. A picture of Shea holding a tiny baby, her face in profile as she peered down into the infant’s eyes.
My gut clenched tight, and I turned away.
I headed downstairs, unable to keep from taking it in, because studying the decor of Shea’s house had been the last thing on my mind when I followed her inside last night. I stepped down into the vacant living room, which had the same dark hardwood floors. It was situated with antique and modern furniture, a blended mesh of old and new that just seemed to work in this house that I guessed had to be at least a hundred fifty years old.
It was gorgeous, too, the intricate crown molding painted a bright white, soft hues of colors on the walls, and the dark brown furniture the perfect contrast. I was no real estate guru, but I was betting the place had to be worth a small fortune.
I mean, I was used to nice shit, but it was always a shallow luxury, cookie-cutter sharp lines in crisp whites, blacks, and grays that drew you into the illusion you had everything you could ever want, when none of it could ever amount to a home.
Home.
No doubt, that’s what this was.
And God, it made me happy that Shea had it, the words she’d spoken about her grandmother who she obviously adored running through my mind. There was no mistaking the way Shea felt about her. I wondered if her grandmother had left this house to Shea before or after Kallie, if she’d been around long enough to witness Shea becoming a mom.
The front door stood like a coward’s beacon in front of me.
To my left, noises filtered down a short hall.
I looked between them.
Part of me wanted to bolt. Because shit, what the hell else was I supposed to do? But after last night? Couldn’t just walk out on Shea without saying goodbye. Sure, I could rack it up to me needing to know if her head was okay, if she was physically hurting after that piece of shit messed with her last night.
But I knew—knew it was more.
I didn’t make a sound as I cautiously moved across the super dark hardwood floors, the increasing sounds echoing down the hall serving as a guide toward my destination.
I passed by a black baby grand set up behind the sitting area before I slipped into the short hall. Outside a swinging door, I paused, listening to the sounds coming through.
Voices.
Not just any voice.
Shea’s voice.
And she was singing, singing soft and low and throaty. It made me smile. I was right. This girl was country. Through and through. The way she was singing with all that southern soul was proof of that. Her voice pitch perfect. Like she’d been trained to sing that way. She was singing one of those old country songs that everyone knew, even me, about a girl being in love with a boy.