She rested her ear against his chest.
“Your parents?” he asked. He didn’t need to say more. They both knew what he was asking.
She kept her face where it was, saying nothing.
Turn to me, he begged her silently. How could he show her that she could depend on him if she wouldn’t give him a chance?
“My family’s decided to speak with Russell Atwell’s mother and sisters,” she finally said. “I was hoping that we could make it happen today, because I’m dreading it. But my mom didn’t give her approval until a few hours ago. So Natasha set up a visit with them for tomorrow morning.”
“What did you find out—”
She launched herself into his arms, and they were kissing again. He walked her backward toward her makeshift kitchen. If she wanted to distract him from asking about her parents, she’d chosen the most effective way possible. Need gathered within him, an insistent storm.
Her hip bumped against her butcher block island and immediately after, a clanging sound reached his ears.
She gave a huff of amusement against his lips. “Are you tearing up my cottage?”
“Guesthouse,” he corrected, glancing to see what had fallen. A square metal canister. Its lid had popped off, fanning tea bags onto the floor and causing a small bottle—a prescription bottle—toroll free. It turned, label side up, label side down before coming to a stop.
She continued their interrupted kiss.
A prescription bottle.
His body reacted before his mind could, turning to stone. “Your tea fell.”
“Mmm?”
“Your tea.”
“Oh!” In the next second, she separated from him and bent over the floor, blocking his view of the bottle with her body. She swept everything into the canister.
That prescription bottle could be for anything.
Allergies. Iron supplements. Anything.
“There we are,” she said, her tone bright, as she set the canister back on the butcher block. “I’ve fixed the damage you’re responsible for.” She grinned.
The air blowing through the gaping doorway had turned colder. “What about the damage you’re responsible for?” he asked in a level tone.
She cocked her head, as if confused by his question.
“I saw the pills, Gen.”
Her expression went too smooth, and in that instant he knew the pills weren’t allergy meds or iron supplements.
His insides hollowed out. He held out a hand and noticed that it was shaking slightly. “May I see them?”
“Sam.”
“Please.”
She jutted out her chin, lifted the prescription bottle from the container, and handed it to him. The label readGenevieve Woodward. 20mg OxyContin.
“I didn’t take any,” she said.
He dragged his gaze to hers, anger multiplying inside him. “When did you get these?”
“Last night.”
