“I’ll be right outside.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I do, though.” I move toward the door, Wrecks following, and I frown. “The dog needs somewhere to sleep.”
“He can just sleep in the bed with me.”
Shit. Am I jealous? Again? “Are you sure?”
“I think—” She clutches her sweater tighter around herself. “I think I’d like the company.”
I bite my tongue so I don’t say anything inappropriate—something likeallow me.
She follows me to the doorway. We’re too close and not close enough, and I have the overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms like I did this morning.
But I don’t.
Because she’s fragile right now. And I’m still a stranger who forgot her.
“Goodnight, Clover.” I unlock her door and open it.
“Goodnight, Valen.” She places a hand on the doorframe. “And thank you. For—for everything today. As hard as it is to relive it, it’s healing to relive it with you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do though.” Under the porch light, her eyes are the color of honey. “You’re choosing to stay. Even though you don’t remember. Even though this is complicated and messy and—”She breaks eye contact, choosing to stare at my shoulder instead. “Thank you. I’ve needed this.”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod. It’s insufficient and cowardly, but she accepts it with a small smile I pretend she’s saved just for me.
As soon as she closes the door, my head falls to it with a dull thud.
I know without opening my eyes that she’s going through her home, checking that each light is shining brightly. Somewhere behind this door, she’s counting her way through another night.
But this time, she’s not alone.
This time, I’m ten feet away in a ridiculous black tank.
And this time, no one will tear me away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLOVER
Two weeks of living with a hundred-pound dog and a bodyguard in a tank have taught me three things.
One, Wrecks has no concept of personal space and will eat literally anything.
Two, Chief has become the mayor of my front lawn.
Three, Valen Stone is a man who thrives on order—which makes the arrival of his chaotic family as close to emotional warfare as he allows himself to get.
“How many people did you say were coming?” My arm is wrapped tightly around the rope of my porch swing as a convoy of vehicles pulls up to my curb. And by convoy, I mean a small army of well-dressed businessmen. They’ve apparently decided to invade my little corner of Happiness, Georgia.
“Three,” Valen says through gritted teeth. He’s standing on my porch—he’s been standing on my porch every morning for two weeks like clockwork, coffee in hand, looking like a Brooks Brothers ad that wandered into a Heartmark movie. “Grant, Chase, and Sterling. That’s it.”
“They’re here,” Chief shouts, stating the obvious from the rocking chair he sweet-talked Braxton into setting up for him on my front lawn. For some reason, he also has Pothole’s leash tiedto it, and I hope someone plans on cleaning up the pig mess, because that’s not a job I want to take on.
Agnes’s potbellied pig has somehow become a shared pet on R&R Road, but I have no desire to take a turn.
