He sauntered over and obligingly offered her the paper cup.
After greedily accepting it, greedily gulping down her first sip—and making a face because it was tepid and weak—she fixed her gaze on her brother. “How is it that Britt Rollins is caring for my animals?”
She tried to keep her tone light. But her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her injury.
Sean shrugged. “He volunteered.” When he saw that his answer wouldn’t cut it, he added, “When Mom was kicking everyone out of your room but family, Britt asked if there was anything he could do to help. Since Mom and Dad were determined to stay here with you, and since me and the boys were pulling forty-eight-hour shifts, she happily handed off your house key to Mr. Helpful and told him he could pet sit and house sit if he really wanted to be of service.”
He frowned at her. “Why? Is that a problem? I mean, he’s got to be a stand-up guy because, according to the daily check-ins he’s been exchanging with Mom, he’s taught Gunpowder to saychicken buttinstead ofdick breath. And apparently, Chewy is in love with him and lets him carry him around everywherewithoutbiting the shit out of him with his little needle Chihuahua teeth.”
The thought of Britt inside her personal space, caring for her animals, should have made her feel strange. And yet…the opposite was true.
What she felt was a spark of hope that maybe her soft dreams of the two of them together weren’t because of the drugs but because he’d changed his mind. Maybe their first night together wasn’t going to be their last night together, after all.
“Go ask the nurse if they can discharge me early,” she instructed, taking another sip of her coffee and hissing at the weak flavor.
Sean lifted an eyebrow. “In a sudden hurry to get home? Is there something you want to tell me about you and Mr. Motorcycle Mechanic?”
Aloud, all she said was, “I need my own coffee and my own coffee maker. This stuff is swill.”
But silently, she thought,I sure hope so.
29
Julia O’Toole’s house, Beverly neighborhood
Britt reread the letter he’d written to Julia for the fifth time as he scratched Chewy’s head.
Ren was on the floor at his feet. The three-legged pit bull liked to curl between the legs of the kitchen table chairs. Binks, Julia’s overly independent cat, sat in his favorite spot on the windowsill, chattering at the birds in the oak tree in the backyard. And Gunpowder perched on the chair next to Britt. The parrot tilted his head like only birds and reptiles do, eyeing Britt’s handwriting as if his walnut-sized bird brain had some opinions about what was written.
For a week, Britt had been part of Julia’s life in a way he’d never imagined. Been part of herworldin a way that only made him adore her more.
She organized her closet by color. She kept an extra toothbrush in the shower. And she collectedStar Warsfigurines that she proudly displayed in the china cabinet instead of…you know…actualchina.
She had a dozen half-dead plants spread throughout the house, which he’d tried his best to nurse back to health. She liked family photographs. The hallway to her bedroom was adorned with pictures of the O’Tooles, some posed, some candid. And she preferred records to digital music—her vinyl collection was a thing of beauty.
It was all so domestic. So homey. So…familial.
And that was before he got to herfamily. Her brothers were big brutes who loved slinging insults at each other. Her father was a tough old bird who mixed it up with his sons like he was decades younger than he was. And her mother? Well, somehow, despite being as petite and perfect as Julia herself, Nora O’Toole ruled over all of them with an iron hand encased in velvet.
The O’Tooles were big and boisterous and bonded. They loved each other so easily and so deeply and so thoroughly that he couldn’t help being a little envious.
However, hard on the heels of that envy came fear. Always fear.
Fear for what would happen to them should tragedy strike. Fear for the depths of the grief they’d suffer, the magnitude of the pain they’d be forced to endure should life do what life always does and end for one of them.
That thought alone was enough to have a pit forming in his stomach and a cold fist squeezing his heart. That thought alone was enough to make him pick up his pen and sign the letter with a flourish.
You’re doing the right thing,he assured himself as he folded the sheet in half.
“Sugar tits!” Gunpowder squawked when Britt propped the note against the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the kitchen table.
Britt frowned at the bird. “I know it’s not poetry or anything. Fisher could have written it so much better. But it says the important stuff, right?”
“Chicken butt.”
“I suppose that’s better than dick breath.” He sighed, pushing up from the table to take one more tour around the house.
He was slow about it, letting his eyes and fingers drift over her things. Committing it all to memory since it would be the last time he stepped foot inside.
