When we got there, Boone was already there, and I breathed out a sigh of relief.
Someone to keep Denver in check was a definite necessity.
“You ready?” I asked her.
She nodded and latched onto my hand like a lifeline.
When we got inside, Denver looked up from the table where he was sitting with Boone, drinking coffee.
My stomach rumbled at the scent of bacon and eggs.
I eyed the food that Denver was steadily shoving into his mouth now with want.
Boone cleared his throat and gestured at Joe.
I looked at her to see her face completely white.
Shit.
“It’s the smell, isn’t it?” I whispered.
She nodded.
I gestured toward the back door. “Go out there and sit down.”
She left, leaving me to tell her dad what had happened.
“Denver?” I asked.
Denver’s brows rose.
“You might want to get yourself something a little bit harder than coffee,” I suggested.
He leaned back in his chair, his food forgotten. “Why?”
I glanced at Boone and widened my eyes.
He got up and poured a glass of whiskey from a bottle that was on the middle island of the kitchen.
When the glass was on the table in front of him, I took a seat next to Boone, putting him in between Denver and me, and started talking.
I didn’t finish before Denver had downed the whiskey and poured himself another glass.
He set the second empty glass down so carefully that it had me stiffening.
I’d seen him that mad once.
He’d caught a boy trying to get a little rough with me at a soccer game when I was seventeen.
He’d had this eerily calm look on his face, and he’d looked so approachable.
That look was a lie.
Before the boy could react, he’d broken the kid’s hand. The hand that’d been touching me.
That same look was on his face now.
“I made an appointment for her later this afternoon at my doctor,” I said as I slid the piece of paper out of my pocket. “She needs a parent there since she’s a minor.”
