And no matter how hard we tried, too often history repeated itself anyway. Exactly what I was afraid of.
Was it possible for things to be different? I wanted to believe that for Ollie. Wanted him to have a bright, happy future with so much love in his life.
But as forme… I was still too scared to hope for the same.
TWENTY-SIX
Grayden
After I saidgoodbye to Piper, I didn’t head home. Did you really think I was going to leave her to face Danny on her own? No way.
But I didn’t want to cause problems for her either. So I would have to stay out of sight.
My truck drove along Main half a block behind her as she walked toward the park. Another car’s headlights appeared behind me, probably wanting to drive faster than a crawl.
I sped up a bit and found a parking space that still allowed a view of Piper’s blond head and wool coat.
She’d just walked into the park. Though it was dark out, there were plenty of streetlights to show her standing beside a picnic table.
Within a couple of minutes, Danny and Ollie came up the sidewalk to meet her.
As they talked, I could read the tightness in Piper’s shoulders from all the way over here. My hand squeezed repeatedly into a fist as I watched.
Then Piper and Ollie walked away from him, heading toward home. Danny went in the other direction.
I let out an exhale. Good. Hadn’t expected any more foolishnessfrom Danny tonight. Still a relief to see Piper and Ollie safe and leaving his vicinity.
Piper wasn’t really mine, despite the line we’d crossed at her coffee shop. But it felt right to be watching over them all the same.
My gaze drifted over to Danny’s sandy-brown hair. He reached his Lexus, which was parked across the street from me, and got in.
His headlights flared to life, and he drove off.
Don’t do it, O’Neal, I thought.
Why did I even bother lecturing myself when I so rarely listened?
I pulled out of my parking spot, made a U-turn, and started following him.
Danny quickly left the Silver Ridge town center and took the highway. There weren’t many other cars out.
I stayed back far enough he wouldn’t spot the make and model of my truck, in case he might recognize it.
About fifteen minutes later, Danny pulled into the gravel lot of a nondescript dive bar. One of a thousand, probably, that dotted Hart County. I pulled in after him, parking as Danny went inside the bar.
For a good five minutes, I stayed there in my truck. Tapping my steering wheel and weighing the option of just driving away.
Then I went inside after him.
The place was wood-paneled and dark, lit by green-glass light fixtures. Billiard balls clacked, and a hockey game played on a TV while country music played from another speaker.
A couple of heads glanced my way, but they lost interest fast. Between my scruffy grooming habits and battered work boots, I looked like I belonged here.
Unlike Danny Carmichael. I found him sitting at a booth with a beer in front of him and his nose in his phone.
“You’re late,” he said, as I slid into the bench seat across from him.
Then he glanced up and his tanned face went pale.
