Holding my breath and my bladder, I quietly watch as a giant bulldozer of a man—seriously, he had to have been a linebacker in a previous life—dressed in all black, his jacket open to reveal the handgun holstered at his side, steps in and offers a nod to me as he passes by, sticking his head into each of the bedrooms and the bathroom, an earpiece tucked into his ear. I hear him say, “All clear,” to no one that I can see. There wasn’t this security rigor on Brett’s first visit. It must be because of her.
Brett eases in on his crutches, immediately searching me out. The bruising around his eyes has improved some. He’s dressed in a black crewneck shirt that hugs his chest in a flattering way, and charcoal pants that hug the rest of him in an even more flattering way, the one leg rolled up to allow for the cast.
He’s removed the bandage across his forehead and I can now clearly see the angry red seven-inch scar just below his hairline. His hair is styled like it was at that charity event, in thick waves combed off his face, and even though he still has a full face of scruff, it looks like it’s been tidied up.
Brett simply stares at me for a long moment, that same awestruck look still in his eyes. I wonder if it’s a reflection of the awe that’s surely in mine. Despite everything, a bubble of excitement erupts inside me.
I’m so happy to see him again.
“Hi, I’m Hildy Wright, Catherine’s mother.” My mom’s voice pulls his attention away.
He offers her a handshake and that genuine smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” God, he’s so charming, even when he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. I can practically see my mother melting into a puddle. Hobbling to the side, he gestures a hand behind him. “Mom?”
The epitome of glamour strolls through the door.
Meryl Price.
In my home.
She’s wearing a figure-hugging ivory dress, and that figure is as hourglass perfect in real life as it is on the screen. As is her silky shoulder--length hair, the color of corn silk, and her flawless face. The only jewelry she wears is a rather modest diamond wedding ring. I wonder if she even has to try to look that good and, if so, how long it takes. My mother came straight from work, so she’s still wearing her office attire—a navy blue pencil dress and simple but classy pumps, some costume jewelry that pulls the whole look together. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is curled at the ends and her makeup is light. She’s always been naturally striking, and yet next to Meryl Price, her hair and complexion look dull, her dress faded and ill-fitting.
Meryl Price offers my mother—for once, speechless—a small, warm smile and handshake, before quickly moving on, searching me out just as her son did moments ago.
And when her gaze locks on me, her impeccably made eyes immediately well up with tears. By the tightness in her jaw, she’s trying to keep them at bay as she strolls toward me, her matching ivory heels clicking against my worn floor. I’m sure this linoleum has never been graced by such expensive shoes before. “Catherine,” she utters breezily.
I’m terrified of saying something stupid, and so I say nothing, simply offering my uninjured hand when she reaches for me. She ignores it, pulling me into a hug, her glossy hair caressing my cheek, her exotic floral perfume filling my nostrils. Her slender arms, as defined as mine are though she’s in her early fifties, squeeze me tightly.
“I don’t know how to adequately thank you for saving my son’s life.” I open my mouth to downplay it, but she cuts me off. “You have a child, too. So you must be able to appreciate how grateful I am.”
That gives me pause. What if our roles were reversed? What if it had been my child trapped inside a car wreck and this woman wrapping her arms around me had risked her life to pull Brenna out?
I would never have been able to find the right words.
It’s odd that I never looked at it from that angle before, but Meryl Price is right. Brett, that giant man leaning against his crutches for support, broken and bruised, will always be her child.
I’m finally able to return her squeeze, a new, wordless understanding passing between us.
We part just as Brett’s driver walks through the door, carrying another elaborate floral arrangement. A short, curvy woman with a jet-black bob storms in after him, her arms laden with several sizable containers of what appear to be catering trays, her eyes scanning my house. “Over there for now, Donovan.” She juts her chin at my coffee table on her way past, heading for my kitchen table to unload her arms. “I’m Simone, Brett’s publicist.”
“Hi.” I frown at the trays.
“Brett mentioned how much you liked the last bouquet of flowers. And I know how draining these types of things can be, so we brought food with us to make things easier for you,” Meryl says, patting my forearm. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She has a graceful way of speaking. I think she could convince me of just about anything.
“No, of course not.”
Simone pops off the lids and the waft of freshly baked bread catches my nose, reminding me that I haven’t actually eaten today. There’s easily enough food here for fifteen people.
“Catherine, perhaps they’d like something to drink?” my mom hints.
“No need. We brought that, too,” Simone chirps, and Donovan reappears just then carrying a Starbucks-branded carafe.
“You’re really . . . prepared.” And considerate.
“That’s why I keep her around.” Brett throws a wink at Simone.
“You’re lucky that you’re still in pain or I’d smack you, the hoops you ask me to jump through,” Simone fake-complains on her way past him to stand in front of my couch, hands on hips, assessing the area. It takes her all of three seconds to notice. “You have no family photos.”
“No, I put them all away.” I glance to Brett, looking for support.
“It’s fine, Simone. The Weekly already agreed to it.”
But Simone frowns. It doesn’t seem to be fine with her. “They agreed to not having the child here. But we need something. A couple framed photos on the side table. You must have one of those?”
“I have a bunch, but they’re in a drawer where I put them.” I can’t help the irritation from creeping into my voice. The child?
She heaves a sigh. “Look, I know you want to protect your daughter. But part of this is building a more positive media image for yourself. I’m sure you’ve already heard some of the less than flattering things that have been said about you—”
“Many times.” I quickly cut her off in case she felt the need to begin listing them.
“Well, the best way to—”
“I will not put my child’s face on national television for publicity efforts.” I’m struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice.
“But—”
“No.”
“You heard her, Simone,” Brett says, and that serious no-nonsense tone is back. His eyes flicker to me and I silently thank him with a small smile. “Besides, I think people will fall in love with her just as she is.”