On the other side stood the woman from last night. She’d been so nice. Caring. Even stood up to Lowell. The woman hadn’t known heartache if she had that kind of confidence.
Brighton flicked the locks and removed the security bolt, then eased open the door.
The woman smiled in her smart slacks and blouse, hair expertly styled. “Hi. I’m Brooke Holloway. We met last night.”
“I remember.” But why was she here? “I’m Brighton.”
Brooke held up a reusable grocery bag. “We look like the same size, so I thought you could use these.”
Stunned, Brighton took the bag and checked the contents. A couple of blouses and lounge pants. And they weren’t cheap knockoffs but all brand names. “I couldn’t?—”
“You can. And will.” Brooke pushed the bag back to her. “Have you had breakfast?” She nodded toward the main lobby. “I’m about to eat with my mom.”
“Oh, I can’t. I have to stay??—”
“Mom has a private condo at the back of the hotel. Nobody will see you.”
“I … shouldn’t.” Admittedly, though she was an introvert, there was something suffocating about knowing she couldn’t leave the room.
With a huffy smile, Brooke took her hand. “Come.”
“Oh, please?—no.” Though she dragged her feet, Brighton wasn’t going to have an all-out brawl with her and draw attention. She slipped into a steady gait, as her training demanded, and heard the door click shut behind them.
Please, please do not let Stone see me out here …
Brooke laced their arms and led her down the carpeted corridor toward the front. “I know you think I’m being rude, but I also know I’ll only be here a couple more days, and if they’re making you stay in there …”
“Oh, I’m not?—”
“—I thought you could use some company.”
How on earth did this woman know so much? Brighton was more than a little mortified that she seemed to understand the situation. “How do you …?” And exactly how much did she know? Why wasn’t she disgusted?
“I had a chat with Mr. Taggart in the dining hall.”
Ah. Well, that was infuriating. She didn’t need people knowing her business. Especially not that business.
As they swept past the main lobby, Brighton frantically scanned for any sign of Stone—the fireplace, seating area, the closed café, the front desk, and dining hall. If he saw her …
Nerves thrumming, she expected at any second to hear him, hear that roar of his, demanding she leave. “Get out of here!” Involuntarily, she hunched her shoulders, hoping to shield herself from the memory of those words, which she still felt along her nape. She nearly crumpled in relief when they entered a narrow hall with one door.
Brooke entered and held the door for Brighton. “Mom, we’re here.”
Hesitantly, Brighton stepped inside, taking in the cozy living room with fireplace and just beyond it, a narrow wood dining table.
“In here,” a woman called, “pulling the quiche from the oven.”
Moving ahead of her, Brooke tossed a glance over her shoulder. “If there’s anything my mom is good at, it’s fattening people up.” She strode into the open kitchen-dining area where a huge island seemed to cozy up to a gas cooktop and oven. “Mom, this is Brighton.”
“Hello, dear,” the woman said as she came around and extended a delicate hand. She was several inches shorter than Brighton’s five-nine height. “I’m Clara Metcalfe.”
“Nice”—Brighton twitched at the name—“to meet you.” Clara. Metcalfe.
Mom.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
Breathe, idiot! She forced a smile across her face as her mental gears struggled to turn the cogs. Her gaze bounced to Brooke, who’d said her name was Holloway—and she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But those blue eyes were unmistakable. Were these two women his family? His mom and sister? That would explain a condo at a hotel.
