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He pressed against the back of my head until I turned to rest my cheek on his pectoral. Silence surrounded us as we stood there in a hug. All I could hear was the gentle beat of his heart in his chest. “Um, what are you doing?”

“Hugging you,” he grunted out.

“I get that, but . . . why?”

He heaved out a deep breath, making my head bob with the rise and fall of his chest. “Because you needed it. And I wanted to give it to you.”

I felt movement above my head, and a second later, the tip of North’s nose at the crown of my head. His chest expanded on a deep inhale, like he was trying to pull my scent into his lungs or something.

“Did you just sniff me?”

He did it again, without a hint of shame. When he spoke, it was with his lips pressed against the crown of my head, the gesture so intimate, so tender, it caused an uncomfortable squeeze in my chest. “I think . . . I remember something⁠—”

I cut him off, taking a big step back and forcing his arms to let me go. “Thanks,” I said, wiping at the dampness on my cheeks with the back of my hand. I hadn’t realized I lost the battle with my tears until that second. “For the hug. I needed that.”

His brow furrowed. “Honey, you never have to thank me for something like that.”

I loved Honey almost as much as I loved Little Flower. Which only made that pinch in my chest that much worse. I really needed him to leave before I lost it completely. “To put your mind at ease, my mom’s going to be okay. It was a rare side effect, but we’ve spoken with her oncologist, and he’s confident it won’t happen again.”

He didn’t say anything for several moments as he worked his jaw back and forth as though he was trying (and failing) to release tension. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was gravelly as he asked, “And you? Are you okay?”

Was I okay? It wasn’t a question I’d given myself time to consider while I watched my mother fight for her life. No, I wasn’t okay, not really. Not at that moment, anyway. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I will be.” It was the most truthful answer I could give. I took another step back, silently communicating that our conversation was finished. “I appreciate you staying, but you don’t have to any longer. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Without giving him a chance to object, I turned on my heel and scuttled back into my mom’s room, closing the door behind me before collapsing against it.

I peeled my eyes open a few seconds later to find Mom watching me with raised penciled brows. Her expression was part curiosity, part humor. “Heard a voice out there in the hall. Almost sounded like that handsome cop you spent the night with a few weeks back.”

I narrowed my eyes and shot lasers her way. “We aren’t having this conversation.”

She adopted an expression of faux innocence. “What conversation? I was only pointing out a fact.”

“Yeah? Well, you keep pointing out the obvious and I’m going to mash that button and drug your ass to sleep.”

SIXTEEN

IRIS

“Absolutely not.” I folded my arms over my chest, one hip cocked in the universal signal for Pissed Off Woman Ahead. Proceed With Caution.

Sadly, I’d forgotten that stance didn’t work when used against another woman. If I’d been dealing with a man, my position and the expression I was wearing would have had his balls burrowing back into his stomach. But I was dealing with my mother. And unfortunately, everything I learned had been taught by her.

She smiled, her demeanor light and breezy, like she didn’t have a care in the world. “It’s cute you think that attitude is going to work on me,” she stated easily as she shrugged the soft, chunky-knit cardigan onto her shoulders. She was dressed in a pair of ballet flats, an intricately designed long, flowy boho skirt, and her favorite frilly white peasant blouse. On her head she wore a brightly colored wrap to cover the wisps of hair that were finally starting to grow back and protect her head from the sun. Her eyebrows were penciled to perfection, and her face looked downright dewy thanks to the makeup she was wearing.

She was dressed for an evening out, something I had no intention of allowing. Not when it had barely been a week since the scare that took a good seven years off the end of my life. The events of that evening were still giving me nightmares.

“Mom, you aren’t coming. You’re not well enough. Besides, the nights are getting chillier now⁠—”

“Hence the cardigan, dear. Now shake a leg. We don’t want to be late, do we? I’m excited to see how you pulled this all together so quickly.”

The answer to that was simple. Stress. It was stress that pushed me. After my mother’s brief hospital visit, I needed something else to concentrate on, to distract my mind, so I poured all my focus into putting together a campaign event for North that was going to knock everyone’s socks off. Every hour I wasn’t sleeping or working (and at least half of the hours I should have been sleeping but couldn’t) were dedicated to throwing the most epic party possible. And tonight I was going to finally get to see the fruits of all that labor.

I’d enlisted the help of my girls, of course, because they were the best friends a woman could ask for and kept asking how they could help, but I’d taken the lion’s share. Simply because I needed something positive to focus on.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone this week, and I want to be there for you.”

I gave her a flat look, my voice deadpan as I muttered, “Uh-uh. I’m not buying it.”