“You don’t hate her?—you’re angry with her. There’s a difference.”
“Not right now.”
“It may seem?—”
“Mom.” He caught her shoulders. “I’m forty-three. I don’t need a lecture or instructions, not after serving in the public sector in one form or another for most of my adult life.” And she didn’t know who Brighton really was. Or? ?… did she? Had Brooke told her?
She skewered him with a disapproving look. “I’m not sure about that lecture …” But she gave a hesitant nod. “Fine. If you or she need anything, you know where I am.”
He almost laughed. “I do. Thank you.” He walked her out and watched her slip into the private rear entrance to her apartment, then headed back inside to find Brighton struggling to her feet. “What’re you doing?”
“Leaving.” There was more defeat than defiance in her tone.
He thought about letting her do that, about reclaiming his peaceful evening, but truth was, there would be no peace till he got this out of the way. “I said we need to talk.”
“It’s pointless, Stone. You’ll still hate me, even if it’s not as much.” Her voice sounded off. “This won’t change anything, except maybe to alleviate your conscience about having tried.”
He cursed himself for not being quieter when he’d talked with Mom. “That’s unfair, but I hear you. And we won’t know what good it’ll do until we try to hear each other out.”
“Will you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Will you hear me out?”
He wanted to spit out a retort along the lines of “of course I will,” but he wouldn’t lie. So he took a second to shift his attitude. “I will.” Even if it killed him. Pointing to the chair, he moved toward the sofa. “Sit and elevate that leg.”
“Always were bossy,” she muttered as she eased into the chair and reclined. Relief loosened the knot between her eyebrows.
He sat on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded. “When’s Cord coming for you?”
“I thought you worked that out with him.”
“You said you called him …”
“Oh.” Brighton blanched, then looked down. “I … I never made the call.”
Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. “Why lie about that?”
Her face reddened but then she wilted. “I didn’t want you to think … I mean?—” She sighed and drew herself up. “I knew you didn’t want me here, so when I saw you, I just wanted to make it clear I was leaving.” She did this limp-shouldered shrug that annoyed him. “Before you got angry again.”
“Nearest town is more than twenty klicks. You would’ve been walking way past dark.” His conscience packed a punch it wanted to deliver that the way he’d treated her left her feeling like her only option was to run away. And that wasn’t all his conscience was chattering about?—it also said he should give her reassurance that the lodge was a safe place, that she was safe … here. But letting her stay felt like a betrayal and there’d been enough of that in his life.
“I can’t do this, Stone,” she whispered, her eyes large and liquid chocolate. “I can’t stay here with you hating me, yelling at me …”
He ran a hand over his beard and exhaled. “Makes two of us.”
Surprise leapt into those rich brown eyes that had drawn him across the room at that first charity event. “If you’ll drive me into town, I’ll catch a bus or cab?—”
“No.”
She winced. “Okay.” She wet her lips. “If you’ll let me rest tonight, I’ll call an Uber or?—”
“I said no.” He rubbed his knuckles. “Cord entrusted you to my care.”
“But you don’t care and you don’t want me here.”
Stone stared at his hands. “No, I don’t, but you’re here.” He met her gaze and straightened. “Let’s not dance around this anymore.” With the way his favorite chair swallowed her, she looked small and vulnerable. “Tell me.” Heart ramming against his ribs, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “Lay it out for me, beginning to end, how you ended up working for Horvath.”
Brighton caught her lower lip between her teeth, brown eyes going molten. She worried the tassel of the throw pillow she held like a shield against her chest. “I …” She shifted. Cleared her throat. “When I was eighteen, I’d just signed a modeling contract with a big New York agency. Really thought I was going somewhere—they were trying to help me get European gigs?—Paris and London. Success spiked my ego. I traded good friends for popular friends. I was … terrible to my family.” She sniffed. “They haven’t spoken to me since a big falling out over my not going home for Thanksgiving when my mom fell ill.”
Her voice sounded raw and sharing this clearly wasn’t easy for her. “Instead, I spent time skiing with my model friends?—and that’s the holiday my mom died. They’ve never forgiven me. I was full of dreams and full of … myself. Maybe too much like Mama, but thankfully, I was raised by my dad and his conservative, godly values. Raised me to know the Beatitudes, trust God for everything. Save myself for marriage …”
