Her quiet.
I set my things down on the table and slipped off my boots, shrugging out of my coat.
For a moment, the day replayed in fragments.
Clinic.
Kane’s voice.
Coffee.
His hand around mine when he helped at the counter.
The look in his eyes when I said I wanted him.
Heat curled low in my stomach again.
God.
I dropped onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
What are you doing?
Grieving your sister and fantasizing about a stranger.
And yet …
The fantasies came, anyway.
Kane’s hands on my hips.
His mouth against mine. Those lips.
The feeling of being pulled flush against him, solid muscle and heat and control.
My breath hitched.
I shifted, pressing my thighs together instinctively, embarrassed even though I was alone.
This was ridiculous.
But also …
Alive.
It was the only word for it.
And after the numbness of the past days, maybe alive was exactly what I needed.
My phone buzzed.
I jolted upright.
Hope flared instantly—and then faltered when I saw my mother’s name.
I answered, anyway.
We talked. Carefully. About paperwork. About Randy. About practicalities.
