He nods. “Keep them until things are calm again.”
This has become too awkward. I’m not sure what else to say except, “I guess this is goodbye?”
He shifts on his crutches. And grimaces.
“You really should get off your feet.”
“That’s what my doctor keeps saying.”
“Well, you want to heal as fast as possible, don’t you?”
“Yeah. It’s just hard, being cooped up. I’m not used to it.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I chuckle. “Well, minus the broken bones.”
He reaches for my injured wrist, gingerly taking it in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the bruised part. “Still hurting?”
“Hardly.” Not right now.
Brett’s phone vibrates in his pocket, so loud that I can actually hear it. “That’s my mother. We really do have to catch a plane.” I expect him to hobble past me with a simple farewell, but instead he adjusts his weight on his crutches and hooks an arm around me, pulling me into his chest, just like he did the first night we met. Only now my hair doesn’t smell like burned fish batter and I’m not in loose sweats. And, oddly enough, though we’ve had barely any time together, I feel like I know him.
“I’m sorry for disrupting your life. You’ve already been through enough.”
I close my eyes and let myself sink into him, thinking how very not sorry I am. Not about this part, anyway.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.” What if I simply want to hear his voice?
How did this so quickly go from Brett being the man I pulled out of a burning car to him being the man I wished was actually part of my life? Whose mouth on mine I wished I had license to tip my head back and feel?
Heat crawls up my face at the very idea that Brett might be able to sense what’s going through my head. He’s showing affection to the woman who saved his life. And I want to show an entirely different kind of affection right now.
He pulls away far enough to lean down and plant a lingering kiss on my cheek, just an inch away from my mouth.
I close my eyes, wishing that he’d shift to the right just a touch.
And then he does.
For only a second his lips are on mine and then they’re gone with a sigh, long before I can shake my shock and unfreeze. Did he mean to do that?
He maneuvers toward the door on his crutches and glances back at me once, to smile.
I want to beg him not to go.
To run to him and throw my arms around him so he can kiss me again, for real this time.
I want him to fall deeply and madly in love with me.
But I press my lips together and root my feet to the ground before I manage to humiliate myself.
And then Brett Madden is gone.
Chapter 15
“You ‘told,’ not ‘telled,’ ” I correct Brenna, testing my right hand as I unload the dish rack of mugs. I should be back to carrying plates of food without too much difficulty by Saturday, which is good because that’s when I’m scheduled to return to work.
“I told Owen that he shouldn’t say mean things about Brett because it was an accident and accidents happen, and hockey is just a game. But he said that his daddy said it was Brett’s fault if they don’t win.”
I roll my eyes, but quietly pray to God that the Flyers do somehow miraculously win the next four games, which is what my dad said would need to happen for them to make it to the final round. Apparently it’s a long shot, especially without their two best players.
“Who is this Owen kid, anyway?”
“Owen Mooter. He’s in grade one.”
“Mooter?”
“Yeah. He’s new.”
“I figured.” I’d remember that name around town. “Don’t listen to Owen Mooter. He’s just repeating what his dad said, and his dad is an idiot.” I quickly add, “But don’t tell Owen Mooter that I said that. And don’t call anyone an idiot. It’s not nice, and I don’t want another call from Mr. Archibald.” I’ve already heard from the principal more in the last three days than I have in the entire school year. Once, to tell me to get Brenna back to school. Then to ask if I’d have Brett come to talk to the kids at school assembly. And again today, hoping to get play-off tickets for him and his son.
“Okay, Mommy.”
“People will stop asking you questions soon. I promise.” I shouldn’t make that promise. With the interview airing tomorrow night, it might make things worse.
“I don’t care if they ask me questions.”
I sigh. But I do, if those questions veer into other topics. “Did you pick out a book?”
“I can’t decide between these two.”
It’s a nightly occurrence, the great dilemma of which book we should read, as Brenna stalls the inevitable bedtime. “So read one to yourself right now, and I’ll be in to read the other one. Hurry up, Brenna. It’s almost nine thirty. You should have been in bed an hour ago.” Everything is off around here these days.
But instead of turning around and heading into her room, she wanders over to the front window. The slats of the blinds are now permanently bent where her little fingers pry them open to peek outside.
“Leave Hawk alone, please.”
“I don’t see any people behind Rawley’s.”
“Good.” Between having Kate Wethers’s crew roll in here last night—signaling that I’d granted an interview with a national broadcast—and the public statement that Simone issued on my behalf that I will not be granting any more, Keith says the swarm of vultures has thinned somewhat.
“Start reading. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Brenna says in her cute singsong voice, skipping back to her room. It makes me smile as I open the kitchen cupboard to stack the clean dishes, and wonder how much longer she’ll be so agreeable.
I frown at the white envelope lying on top of the dinner plates. I don’t remember putting it there.
My stomach tightens with wariness the moment I feel the weight of it, sensing the thick wad inside. I tear it open and my jaw drops. “What the . . .” I fan it with my thumb. Twenties and fifties and hundreds.
There are thousands of dollars in here.
Along with a note and two hockey tickets. I immediately recognize Brett’s writing.
Catherine,
I know you don’t want my money. That’s why you need to take this.
—Brett
Heat flushes to my cheeks. He must have snuck the envelope into the cabinet yesterday. Either way . . . he’s right, I’m not okay with accepting a secret stash of cash from him.
I fumble for my phone. Scrolling through my list of contacts, I stall for all of three seconds before I hit Call. Despite my immediate anger, I also feel more than a hint of excitement that I have an excuse to call him.