“That girl I told you about? The one whose boyfriend hit her? She was older than me, and I got sucked into the foster system before I could figure out how to help her.” He leaned down to pet Hazel’s head. “It sucks to stand by and watch someone else be hurt, Bailey. And I’m not going to do it again.”
“In other words, I’m some kind of pity project for you.” She peered up at the sky, unable to look him in the eye. A plane flew high over her head, silent but steadily blinking, its destination far from Heartache, Tennessee.
“But you won’t be. As soon as you tell your dad what happened.” He tugged his bike out from the spot where he’d left it earlier. Then, leaning the frame on his hip, he pulled on the sweatshirt he’d let her borrow.
“Then you’ll be off the hook.” She was his personal charity case.
Flattering.
“Then I don’t have to worry about you.” He straddled the seat and pushed off with his feet. He looked over his shoulder as he pedaled away. “I can just like you.”
BRIGHT SUNLIGHT SLANTED through the blinds overhead. Odd snippets of conversation drifted to Amy’s ears as she pulled herself out of sleep. Had a television been left on somewhere?
“I drove all this way. Please.” A woman’s voice—vaguely familiar—was pleading in a nearby room.
Amy’s limbs were pleasantly sore, her hair a rough tangle under one cheek where she lay in sheets that weren’t her own. Dove-gray sheets that smelled good.
Like Sam.
Her night in his bed had been far more satisfying than her teenage self could have ever imagined.
“When you brought him here, we agreed I could have him for six weeks.” The tone of Sam’s voice brought her upright. Stern and unyielding.
Nothing like the lover who’d whispered tender encouragement to her when she’d woken him with kisses a few hours ago, wanting him all over again.
“I didn’t know that I would miss him so much.” The woman’s tearful voice prompted Amy’s memory then.
She’d heard that same voice on Sam’s phone the day before. Aiden’s mother, Cynthia, was here. At Sam’s house.
Sliding out of bed, Amy searched for clothes even as she told herself not to get involved. It wasn’t her place; this was Sam’s business. But the tone of the conversation worried her. She remembered how resentful Sam had felt toward Cynthia yesterday. But if Aiden’s mother was truly suffering from postpartum depression, how unfair would it be for him to send her away?
All Amy’s deprived maternal instincts flared to life as she slid into her leggings. Fastened her bra hooks.
Dropped her dress over her head.
Sam’s voice rumbled something low, and Amy hoped it was something reassuring. As Aiden’s father, he would have the boy’s best interests in mind. She trusted that absolutely.
So when she found herself opening the bedroom door, it wasn’t to interfere. It was only to extend...
Forcing herself to stop in the middle of the hallway, she waited for that thought to finish itself.
She wanted to offer some kind of empathy toward the woman who—according to Sam—had abandoned her own baby. Where the hell was that need coming from? Normally she ran headlong from getting too involved in other people’s affairs.
Pivoting on her bare feet, she retreated to the bedroom. A floorboard creaked beneath her step.
“Amy?” Sam called to her from the front room.
She cursed herself for leaving his bed.
“Yes?” She didn’t move.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Because he didn’t want Cynthia in his house?
Or because Amy couldn’t mind her own business?
At least she’d put her clothes on. It would have been awkward to meet the mother of his child while wrapped in a sheet.
Make that more awkward.
