Her eyes caught on her rings, and she made a stricken, high-pitched sound.
She tugged at them, expecting resistance again, but this time both rings slid from her finger with laughable ease.
She laughed, a soft despairing sound, and carefully placed the rings on the coffee table in front of her.
She was usually an intelligent woman. Asurgeon, for God’s sake.
She offered her patients hope. She was their biggest advocate in a high-stakes game of life and death. She often represented that last brave line of defense.
But Kenny and her patients weren’t always on the winning team. Death too often emerged victorious. And Kenny had always tried to be practical about that painful and difficult reality of her work.
So why couldn’t she accept that what had once lived and breathed between her and Smith was beyond resuscitation? It died even before the tiny flicker of life in her womb had been snuffed out.
And even though the last twenty-four hours felt reminiscent of their beginning, it had actually been the embers of what had once been flaring one last, glorious time before dying completely.
It was time for her to accept that.
Smith was a goddamned coward. Why the fuck had he just left Kenna like that?
Less than half an hour after all that shit he’d spouted to Harris he’d simply bailed on her the second things had gotten a little tooreal. So much for spending time with her and having hard conversations. So much for finding answers and clarity.
And he couldn’t fault Kenna this time. This was entirely on him.
He was still kicking himself when he dropped Spencer’s vehicle off at the man’s massive sporting goods store.
“Thanks, man. The kids can clean this up,” the big man said about the sofa. “Be a good project for them. Keep them busy for a while.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Smith muttered absently as he dug the Land Rover’s keys out of his front pocket. He’d left it parked outside the store.
“See you at the game tomorrow?” the other man asked. He seemed distracted by something across the road, and Smith glanced over his shoulder to see what had caught Spencer’s attention.
Just a couple of kids.
“Yes, but I’m not playing,” Smith said.
Spencer and Sam Brand had been trying to get Smith on their football team for weeks now. The teens from the youth center played against the adults every second week. And from what Smith gathered, the adults got their arses handed to them at every game.
He kept telling them he was a shit football player, but for some reason they persisted. Well, if they kept trying to load their team with shit players, they were nevergoing to win.
“Hmm,” Spencer rumbled in response. Smith wasn’t sure if it was in agreement or disapproval. The other man’s eyes were still on the kids on the other side of the street and his eyes narrowed.
“Royston!” he suddenly hollered. “Are you hiding spray paint under your shirt?”
Smith jumped at the loud bark and looked around to see the two boys who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen staring back at Spencer with wide eyes.
“No Mr. C…” the boy yelled back, his voice imploring. “I’m not. I promise.”
Spencer glanced over at Smith as if suddenly remembering he was still there.
“Got to sort this out before they get themselves arrested. See you tomorrow then.”
He jogged across the street, and Smith watched as he talked to the boys. His body language was relaxed, nonthreatening, and for such a hulking guy, he didn’t even appear to be looming above the much smaller boys.
The boys hung their heads, occasionally replying and finally, after a few more words from Spencer, they both handed over the spray paint cans that they’d been inexpertly hiding under their T-shirts.
The guy had a great way with kids. Smith could see why his youth center was so successful.
Smith climbed into his Land Rover and just sat there for a moment, staring blindly into space, remembering the quiet hope and expectation in Kenna’s expression just before he’d careened out of the house like a bat out of hell.
