It’s not from Misty. It’s not even from this area code. Could it be . . .
Nervous flutters explode in my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Keith asks, turning to see my frown.
“Nothing. Be back in a sec.” I duck into my room to fish out the lined piece of paper, my thumb sliding over his neat scrawl.
The numbers match.
Brett Madden is texting me.
I sit, perched on the edge of my bed, staring at the four simple, innocuous words, and I’m at a loss for a response. What so many women would give to have Brett Madden texting them.
And all I had to do was pull him out of a burning car.
What do I say? That things suck? That I’m a prisoner in my own home? That the news is dragging my skeletons out of the closet and parading them down the street? Between the inappropriate questions, Misty also informed me that Raven News had run an in-depth five-minute clip on Scott Philips—on his family, his college education, and his years teaching. Thankfully, they haven’t interviewed him yet. I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say about me.
I don’t want to make Brett feel bad, though.
I’ll live.
As soon as I hit Send, I cringe. Seth Grabner didn’t live. Brett almost didn’t. Will he see that as a callous response?
“Ugh . . .” I’m such an idiot. I wish I could retract that.
I quickly punch out, How are you?
I bite my thumbnail and wait until three dots begin dancing on my screen.
I’ll live (thanks to you). Are the police still on guard?
I smile.
If by “on guard” you mean washing my dishes and playing go fish with Brenna, then yes. It’s like Fort Knox around here.
V.S.S. reported that it’s under control.
So he’s keeping tabs . . .
Their guns are awfully persuasive.
I hope you offered them SunnyD.
I stifle my giggle.
I only offer that to my favorite guests.
And now it seems like I’m flirting.
Sounds more exciting than my life. I have a doc visit this afternoon, but I’m laying low otherwise.
How is your leg?
Based on what he said about his injuries yesterday, he must be in a lot of pain.
My mom is spoon-feeding me drugs because she doesn’t trust that I’ll take them. If I suddenly stop responding, it’s because I’ve passed out.
I can’t help myself.
I have to ask, what’s it like having a movie star for a mother?
She’s just Mom to me.
I guess so.
Since we’re asking questions . . . Did you and Officer Singer date at some point?
I frown. Why is he asking me that?
No.
Never?
Nope. He’s one of my best friends. Why?
It just seemed like there was more to it than a cop doing his job.
Well, we did kiss behind the gym when we were twelve.
That must be it.
I can’t believe I just told you that.
And why are we even talking about Keith?
BTW, my other best friend is in love with you.
I roll my eyes at myself. Yes, that’s much better.
There’s no response from Brett for a moment. I wonder if he passed out. Where is he right now? On his couch?
In his bed?
Thoughts of him sprawled out on a mattress are interrupted by three dots.
Oh?
It’s a single word, and I’m not sure how to take it. Does he like hearing about women obsessing over him, or does it annoy him?
Yes, she flooded my phone with all kinds of pictures of you.
There’s another long pause, and then, Did you see this one?
An image follows quickly, of Brett in a French maid’s outfit at least two sizes too small, his muscular, hairy legs on full display, a wide, goofy grin on his face, a beer in hand. From the other costumes around him, I’m guessing it’s a Halloween party.
It’s a terrible, unflattering picture. I burst out laughing.
Oddly enough, this one was not included.
I think my publicist suppressed it. Not sure why.
For the life of me, I can’t figure it out either.
I’m going to regret sending that to you when I’m not high on Percocets.
It’s saved for future blackmail.
Brett Madden clearly has a sense of humor. And he can laugh at himself.
And I’m not sure, but I think he might be flirting. Or he’s just heavily medicated.
I’m still giggling as I watch the three dots bounce, wondering if I’m going to get another ridiculous picture.
I was so out of it yesterday that I forgot to ask you how much you had to pay for your truck. I owe you.
And just like that, my bubble is flattened.
You don’t owe me anything.
I owe you everything, actually. Starting with a new vehicle, and help with all the shifts you’re missing.
Tension creeps into my shoulders. Is this why he texted me to begin with? Is this the only reason?
That’s very generous of you, but I’ll manage. I always have.
Even as I type the words, I can hear my mother yelling at me for being stupid and stubborn. How do I explain that it just doesn’t feel right to accept money from him? That just picturing the entire transaction—him handing over a check, me accepting and cashing it—makes me uncomfortable in my skin.
I wait five minutes for a response, but it doesn’t come.
“Mommy! I want to play!”
I sigh, setting my phone on my bed, hoping I didn’t piss him off. “Coming . . .”
“Brett Madden was here, in your house, and you didn’t think to call me?” Misty glares at me, not bothering to veil her hurt. “Or even tell me about the accident?”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking straight . . . I’m sorry.” As much as I wasn’t ready to deal with Misty’s exuberance, when she showed up on my front porch with a box of cupcakes from the Sweet Stop—bribery, so she could grill me about Brett in person—I found myself sighing with gratitude. Misty has stuck by me through everything. She was there when it felt like everyone else had turned on me. She was there in the delivery room with me when I had Brenna, alone and terrified and screaming in pain. Whenever I’ve needed help, she’s showed up.
Though I’m not sure how much she’s helping me now. With a folder on her phone dedicated to pictures of Brett Madden, she isn’t exactly unbiased, swept up in the romance of the story.
“You should tell him you want to see him again. I’ll bet he’d drop everything and come.”
“I’m not going to do that! He’s at home, resting. He barely survived a car crash.”
“But he did, thanks to you.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s at my beck and call.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice.” Misty licks the buttercream frosting off her fingertips while she lounges in the La-Z-Boy, her legs folded up beneath her. “He owes you everything.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“So . . . now what?”
“Now . . . we wait for the reporters to give up or get bored and leave me alone.” A few more days, perhaps? I mean, I know Brett and his family are a big deal, but there are way more important things to be reporting on than this.
The steps outside creak, and a moment later, Keith lets himself in with his key, his arms laden with grocery bags.
“How is it out there?”