Before he could refuse or?—worse?—comply, Brighton hobbled to the chair and plopped down. “See? I’m good.”
Mrs. Clara gave her son a severe glare as she sat on the leather ottoman that served as a table. Her blue gaze returned to Brighton as she lifted her leg. “This one?”
Brighton nodded, ears trained on the kitchen where something sizzled and crackled. The wafting aroma of fajita meat?—one of his favorite dishes?—made her stomach rumble. Self-conscious, she gave his mom a sheepish grin. Which quickly vanished at the older woman’s manipulation of her ankle, eliciting a yelp and hiss from Brighton.
“Sorry about that, dear. Indeed likely a strain or sprain.” She went to the kitchen and returned with a baggie of ice. “I prescribe RICE.”
So much like her own mom had been. Brighton nodded. “Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”
“Indeed. Three down and one to go.”
“I’ll ask Alvaro to pick up a bandage when he heads into town tonight for supplies,” Stone said.
“Perfect.” Mrs. Clara then provided some ibuprofen and water. “Take these and stay off it for a while. This chair is great for elevating it.” She smiled down at her as Brighton took the proffered medication. “I think your ankle is not the only part of you that needs some healing TLC.”
Mind reader much?
“And in light of that, I suggest we eat dinner in here with you.”
“Oh, no. You don’t have?—”
“Yes, we do. I heard your stomach. And he’s made a fine meal. Just sit and rest that leg.”
She was treating Brighton like a victim, not an escapist. Not the woman who’d ruined her son’s career. Then again, it was hard to even think of the rugged, larger-than-life Stone Metcalfe as “son” to this diminutive woman.
Sitting and staring at the TV with some sitcom playing as he and his mom whispered less than ten feet away, Brighton couldn’t help but wonder about that “we’ll talk” he’d gruffed against her ear. When he’d said that, it seemed he might not have been quite as angry as before. Or maybe it was just another deflection. His words had sounded like a warning, though. And it terrified her. Because it meant honesty. A lot of it. And a lot of it from her.
During their months together, he’d laughed and kissed her because he hadn’t known what she was. Every day it’d killed her, being with him, enjoying their time together, his laugh, his character. It made her want to tell him the truth. To be a better person. She’d even started believing he might understand that she’d been forced to entertain men.
Stone was all about the choice, about the will. No, he wouldn’t understand. He’d just tell her she had a choice and she’d made hers.
But now, she was here. With him. And they were going to talk. That couldn’t be just some cruel twist of fate. It had to mean something, right?
Yes, that you’re a naïve idiot.
He’d so looked forward to fajitas alone with the news, but it was strange and borderline disturbing to be eating with Brighton. In his home. Sitting in his chair. All through dinner there’d been a frustrating, awkward silence that he let his mother fill with small talk and questions about Brighton.
“How’re your parents?”
Brighton wasn’t sure?—they hadn’t seen each other in a while, though her mom died years ago. Her dad was a megachurch pastor but she refused to watch his streaming services.
Do you have any siblings?
A younger brother, Aston.
All things he’d known about her. Things she’d shared with him in Baltimore. There had been other questions, but Stone had gotten lost in his own thoughts about how they’d gotten here, what he was supposed to do with all this. When he took the dishes from them both and loaded them in the dishwasher, Mom came to his side.
“I don’t think it’s right for me to leave.”
Stone frowned at her. “She and I need to talk.”
“She’s afraid of you,” his mom said, her eyes wide. “Why?—”
“It’s not me she’s afraid of?—it’s the truth.” He tightened his jaw. “Please. We just need time to talk.”
“Why? What do you hope to accomplish?”
He shoved a hand through his hair and huffed. “Maybe not to hate her so much.” He felt miserable saying that, but it was true.
