“Yep.”
“Call me if you need anything. I mean, anything at all, day or night,” he orders.
“Yes, sir.” she sobs loudly, and takes her bags from him.
“You sure I can’t drive you to the airport?” he asks.
“Nope. Cab’s waiting,” she says, jabbing the elevator button.
She’s so damn stubborn.
“Now please take my girl inside, shut the door, then screw her brains out to keep her from thinking about me, okay?” Lottie demands.
Denham laughs from deep down in his chest. “Okay,” he says, stepping back from the threshold. “Take it easy, Lotts.”
“You too, D.”
“Love ya,” Denham says quietly, which somehow makes me cry even harder.
“Uh huh,” she replies, swallowing hard and finding herself unable to form any more words, as she steps back into the elevator, and the doors start to close.
“I love you, Lottie!” I call out.
“I love you, babe,” she calls, her words just making it through the gap in the doors as they shut.
Then she’s gone.
I know it’s what she needs to do. It’s what shewantsto do. But it hurts to know she’s going to be so far away.
“She’ll be back,” Denham soothes, pulling me into his chest and stroking my hair.
“She’s going to be so far away,” I sob, rubbing my nose into his shirt.
“London isn’t that far. We will go and visit her once she gets settled, okay?”
“Why couldn’t she have ventured to New York or something? Why so far?”
“She’s hurting, Stunner. She needs to find a way to heal her heart.” He shrugs with me still tight in his arms, and I know he’s right. When Spike found out he had lost the use of his legs, he was angry at the world. He still is. He pushed Lottie away, which cut her deep.
“For fuck’s sake.” We hear yelling from across the hall, in the other penthouse.
“I’ll go,” Denham sighs.
“No, let me,” I say, tiptoeing to kiss him on the cheek.
Spike was only allowed home from the hospital on the proviso that he had someone to care for him. This didn’t go down too well with him. He’s a grown man, who’s lived on his own for years, so he didn’t want to move back in with Dana, much to her disappointment. So, Denham had the other penthouse converted to suit Spike’s wheelchair. That way we could be just across the hall, but he could be independent too.
“Spike,” I call out as I push the door open.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
I can’t see him but his voice is close. He’s in the kitchen, and as I approach, I see that he’s knocked his mug off the countertop, and there’s hot coffee everywhere.
“Shit. Spike. Let me help you.”
“NO,” he shouts. “Please, Ari. I can do it, okay?” he pleads.
It’s hard to stand here and watch him struggle, but I respect his wishes. Although we’ve adapted everything in this apartment for his needs, and he has a custom made wheelchair, he’s struggling, physically, and emotionally.
