Where the hell was she?
I pushed open the door and stepped outside. Light rain fell, and fog enfolded the tall trees and shrubs in its vaporous hue. About to pull out my cell and call her, movement to my left caught my attention.
There, on the padded two-seater swing she sat, a knitted throw on her lap. She wore a loose, thick, navy sweater, and her furry slippers were on the tiled porch. The swing barely moved as she sipped her steaming drink.
She looked so beautiful and serene sitting there, but if she thought she could shut me out now that she had what she wanted, she was in for a damn shock.
I strode over.
She looked up. A soft smile curved her mouth. “Hey.”
My irritation wavered. I sat beside her, careful not to jolt the swing and spill her hot drink. “You left.”
“I’m an early riser, Max.” She faced forward again, appearing to study the drenched trees and shrubs shrouded in mist. “Everything’s so beautiful. Peaceful. I love the rain.”
I glowered at the swirling mist, trying hard to get my turbulent emotions under control. She held out her mug to me. “Here.”
“I don’t drink chocolate.”
“It’s Milo.”
“And how is that any different?” I shifted my brooding stare to her, and was spellbound by the softness in her gaze. As if under a spell, I took her mug and set it on the floor, pulled her onto my lap, and put my mouth on hers. She tasted of chocolate and mint. And when she kissed me back, the restlessness within me settled. I deepened the kiss, and those tiny little sounds she made, ones more seductive than a moan, filled my ears. “I missed you.”
“I’m right here.”
“In bed,” I growled against her mouth.
She laughed, pressed another kiss to my lips, and leaned her head against my shoulder.
Resting my cheek on her head, I smoothed the silky strands. “What’s on for today? Will the fair still run in this weather?”
“It will. It’s a die-hard tradition to get wet, but my part’s done. We can hang out at home if you’re okay with that. I want to spend some time with my parents, and we can leave for the city in the afternoon?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Then I asked the one thing that had been troubling me. “What’s wrong with your mom?” At my question, the hand stroking my chest stilled. I grasped her fingers, squeezing gently. “Logan?”
“She’s sick.” She got off me. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she walked to the edge of the patio and stared into the mist-drenched garden. I waited. When she faced me, there was so much pain in those liquid gold eyes, it made me want to go over and hold her close. Protect her from this hurt.
“Mom was diagnosed in her twenties with type one diabetes and high blood pressure. There were ups and downs through the years, but with medication, she persevered.
“Four years ago, she suffered a severe stroke, and it affected her left side badly. It took time and therapy to be able to s-speak again…” Her voice trembled. “Then two years later, she had another. She was walking down the stairs when it happened. She fell… she broke her left hip and wrist. It was so bad, we thought we’d lose her. The surgery was long. Painful. It’s taking her time to recover…”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
Logan was worried, I saw it in everything she did—in fact, in everything her family did when it came to Mrs. L. Was it the money that prevented them from getting a caregiver? Because I knew Mr. L worked from home to be close to her.
“What does your father do?”
“He’s a tax consultant.”
Instinctively, knowing money would be a touchy subject, I braced my arms on my knees and broached it carefully. “A caregiver would be helpful.”
“My dad takes care of her.”
“Logan, this is me, talk to me. Is it the money?”
She cast me an unreadable look. “Don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” Cool. Firm.
Irritation surged. I jerked to my feet and crossed to her. “Don’t tell me not to worry about you—”
