Wyatt had no time to process that he was about to kiss Addison before they got thrown a curveball.
Emma hasn’t said a word since they left.
He didn’t want to bring her along. She’d rather be with her mother, and he gets that. Hell, he’d rather be with Addison, too, instead of running off on a risky mission. The ultrasound can offer answers, though, and leaving Emma behind isn’t an option.
Addison was right, she’s safer with him for now, and they’re making good time to Jeff’s house.
He keeps waiting for her to say something. Expects an outburst or a crying fit, but the girl is quiet, preferring to retreat into herself.
“Please don’t hate me,” she says suddenly.
“Why would I? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I thought you were hurting her, and I almost ran over and pushed you. Violence isn’t the best way to handle conflict. Momma always told me that.”
He smirks at how she rattles off the words in a way that makes him hear Addison’s voice instead. “Is that what she said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in usual circumstances that would be the case, but we ain’t in usual circumstances lately, are we?” He offers her afew stilted pats on the shoulder, opening the glove box to hand her a stack of paper towels the former owner must have looted. “Thinking about something and doing it aren’t the same. You and I are good. Don’t worry about that.”
She blows her nose loud enough to alert every rotter in a ten-mile radius, but seems a fraction calmer than before.
“Do you have a nice right hook you’ve been keeping secret all this time?” He smirks.
“Of course not.”
“We need to have a few sparring lessons soon. Then you will.”
She perks up like he offered her ice cream on a hot day. “Really?”
“Mhmm. I’ll teach you how to street fight like my brother taught me. Show your mom too when she’s able.”
“What’s the difference between street fighting and regular fighting?”
“You play fucking dirty, that’s what. Go for the eyes and the crotch and throw dirt in their face. Use whatever you got around you to take ‘em down.”
“I’m setting up a swear jar when we get home.”
He huffs at the hint of sass in her voice. “What am I putting in this jar? We’ve got no money.”
“I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll let you know.”
“You do that.”
“Mom’s gonna be okay, right?” Emma asks a few minutes later. “She didn’t look good when we left.”
“She’ll be just fine. She has to be.”
“I’m really glad my mom didn’t shoot you like she was going to when you first showed up.”
He blinks at her blunt delivery. It’s a reminder that they are nearing the end of that thirty-day timeline. “Yeah, me too.”
* * *
Abandoned cars block the street, so they park at the head of a cul-de-sac, having to venture the rest of the way on foot.
A series of cookie-cutter homes lay before them, only distinguished by mailbox numbers. The right house sits at the very end, waiting with an unlocked door.
