“What thefuck?” I demanded.
“Hello to you too.” She leaned forward to place her phone on the coffee table.
I ground my teeth together, usually not unhappy to see Calliope. Not that I’d tell her that. She was the closest thing I had to a friend these days. My brother’s fiancée. Kind of pathetic.
Which I was. Pathetic.
I was pining over my fucking daughter’snanny. Who was still in college.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Hannah?” The words came out harsher than I intended, especially since Calliope had just been released from the hospital. Not that she looked as if she’d been dancing with death only a couple of weeks ago.
The corners of Calliope’s mouth tipped up as if she knew something I didn’t. My mind hurtled through possibilities of where she could be. Since she’d become friends with Lori, she spent a night off or two at her place, going out for dinner. Other than that, Hannah didn’t go many places.
I’d enjoyed knowing that Hannah was making friends here, noting that she smiled more, seemed more confident. I’d noticed all that, even if I’d tortured myself thinking about the men looking at the two young women and likely hitting on them.
Had Hannah gotten someone’s attention? Was she out on a fuckingdate?
Surely not. Not when it was her night to watch Clara. She’d never do that to her.
So then why was my blood boiling, and why was Calliope grinning like the cat who ate the fucking canary? She was already too damn nosy about Hannah and my treatment of her. She wouldn’t stop riding me. Because she was a good woman, and I was an asshole.
“She’s at the hotel on the cove,” Calliope explained through the clamor in my ears.
My body stilled. “What?” I uttered slowly. Hannah. Not here. Not under my roof. I’d cursed her sleeping here, walking aroundin outfits that molded to her body, her fuckingpantiesin my dryer, her smell imprinting into the walls.
It had been torturous.
But I couldn’t imagine my house without Hannah in it. Without her books lying around, no fresh flowers or fucking hair scrunchies she seemed to have a million of and were always lying around because she couldn’t decide whether she wanted her hair up or down.
I couldn’t decide which I liked better, though I ached to hold it in my palm, tug on it while taking her from behind.
“What is Hannah doing at a goddamn hotel?” I demanded.
“She got the flu,” Calliope explained, scrutinizing me, probably noting my reaction. That woman noticed too much, but I didn’t have it in me to school my expression.
“She didn’t want to risk passing it to Clara. She called me, I got her the best room in the place, and I’ll check on her in the morning.” She screwed up her nose. “Well, notmebecause I don’t want the flu either, but Elliot will. Bring her soup or whatever.” She waved her hand as if the concept of caring for someone was beyond her comprehension.
My brain hummed as I tried to process this information. Hannah. Sick. Alone in a hotel room. Thinking of Clara first because that’s what Hannah always did. “Why in the fuck didn’t she call me?”
“She did,” Calliope replied, taking another sip. “You didn’t answer.”
I rubbed the back of my head. Fuck. She had called me. I’d seen the notification after the rush of dinner service had ended. But there were no other texts. It was unusual, to be sure, but we’d agreed that if something ever happened to Clara and she couldn’t reach me, she’d call the restaurant’s main line.
We had a protocol. I’d dismissed the call, thinking it was her wanting to ask something about Clara that wasn’t urgent.She had, on occasion, called to ask if she could take Clara somewhere, to double-check ingredients in a treat she was about to buy her.
Something had pinged in my brain, seeing the missed call. My muscles had tensed, and I’d had the craziest urge to run home to her.
Which is why I didn’t call back. Didn’t check in. I was trying to punish myself, punish myself for wanting her.
I was such a piece of shit.
“And you just let her go to the hotel by her fucking self?” I barked at Calliope, fury and worry clawing at my throat.
Calliope arched a brow, not the least bit bothered by my misplaced anger. “She’s old enough to vote, drink, and fight for her country, so I figured she could handle checking into a hotel.”
I ignored her dry tone and thought of my options. Clara was here. Healthy, safe. All risks of her having an adverse reaction to something like the flu were essentially gone. Technically. But my brain didn’t know that. Not in the far recesses, where my fear still lurked, occasionally paralyzing me.
Clara hadn’t had so much as a sniffle since she recovered from the transplant, and words likeremissionhad been used—tentatively, of course, since it was much too early. Her birthday party had been my first huge stressor, panic flooding my every cell at her being exposed to that many children, even though she was masked, even though her doctors okayed it.
