“And it’s none of my brother’s business why. Just trust me, okay? I did what I thought was best. I still think it was for the best. Please don’t meddle.”
His lips twitch, fighting a smirk. “No meddling. Promise.”
“Thank you.”
He shoots me a quick side glance, grin spreading. “But for the record? I’m all for the two of you finding your way back together.”
As we pull in front of Stumps, the scent of fried food and barbecue sauce hits me through the vents, and my stomach growls as I mentally scan through my food options. The parkinglot is already packed—typical for a Friday lunch crowd—but I spot Silas’s truck parked a few spaces down.
Of course, he beat us here.
Noah catches me looking and smirks. “You gonna pretend you didn’t just search for his truck, or should I give you a second to fix your hair?”
“Don’t start,” I warn, fighting a smile. “I’m here for lunch, not a date.”
“Sure, Kates,” he says, dragging out the nickname with way too much amusement.
Rolling my eyes, I grab my crutches from behind the seat and swing my door open. The heat hits instantly, sticky Georgia humidity making it feel even hotter than it is. I square my shoulders, take a breath, and follow my brother to the door.
And even though I tell myself it’s just lunch, my pulse kicks up when I see Silas waiting inside, the internal desire for this to bemorefirmly planted in my mind. His head is bent toward Aubrey as she chatters animatedly, that familiar grin tugging at his lips as he takes in every word.
Like he can feel my gaze on him, he looks up, and suddenly, I’m not sure of my own name.
Yeah. Just lunch.
Chapter 24
Oakley Kate
Surgery day.
The waiting room smells like industrial cleaner and burnt coffee, and it's so quiet I can hear the lights humming overhead. My palms are slick against the crutch grips, and my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it.
On second thought, maybe not.
I turn on my crutches, ready to bolt back through the outpatient doors, but Noah steps in front of me, phone to his ear and an exasperated look on his face.
“She’s trying to bolt,” he mutters into the phone. “Hold on, let me get her seated.”
He gently turns me toward the waiting room and lowers me into a chair before confiscating my crutches.
“He’s trying to get here. Just talk to him,” he tells me. Into the receiver, he says, “Here she is.” Then he shoves the phone into my hand before walking a few steps away.
I hold the phone to my ear, but the moment I hear that faint hum of the line, my throat closes up. The last thing I wanted was to let my anxiety win—especially at five-thirty in the morning—but here I am. I open my mouth, trying to form words, but all that comes out is a pathetic little squeak. I snap my lips shut, mortified.
“Breathe, Kates,” comes his low, steady voice. “You’ve got this. Deep breath in…let it out slow.”
I do as he says, following the rhythm of his voice until the trembling in my hands eases and the panic loosens its grip on my lungs.
“Sorry, Si,” I whisper. “Crisis averted.”
“We’re coming through Augusta now. Do you want me to head your way?”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“That’s not what I asked. Yes or no.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
