Page 54

But now, even for two thousand dollars, I would not search that bag.

I look forward every day to seeing what she brought, and I definitely don’t want to spoil the surprise of what my extra gift might be.

I turn and head into the kitchen, and cross to the countertop where I have the treats and two little plates already laid out.

“Because Lydia was so young, her brain was able to heal more completely and faster than an adult with the same stroke would have,” I say, continuing the conversation as I choose two of the treats and set them on plates. “She was also able to relearn things more easily. Like walking and running.”

The plates have the same decorative pattern as the disposable pans that have been showing up at my house with food in them. It’s all sold as a set at the grocery store.

I have no doubt Sutton will notice.

“The first few days were really scary, though,” I tell her. “There were a lot of tears, a lot of hushed conversations, and felt like one million people in long white coats and scrubs were in and out of the room. But then therapy started,” I tell her, turning to face her and propping my hip against the counter.

Sutton does the same, watching my face instead of looking at the food, and I wonder if she’s even noticed it yet.

“The therapy was more or less just playing with her. I mean, I’m sure it was more than that, but the therapists wanted me to be involved and so that’s what I did. I went to her sessions, and we played.” I smile remembering it. I was so fucking relieved to be able to do something for Lydia, to feel like I was helping.

“She had a little trouble with her left arm, and even that side of her face at first, but that all came back really quickly.” I take a breath. “I remember the first time she fully smiled again. Even at that young age I remember knowing that meant she was going to be okay.”

Sutton’s eyes are a little shiny now as she nods. “Brewser still basically seems like himself. When he’s joking around and everything. I remember when Mara wasn’t able to sit up to play or stay awake for her favorite cartoon anymore…”

Her voice gets thick, and she can’t continue.

Fuck, I need to hug her again so badly. I could get addicted to that. Easily.

“That’s why I love this dance stuff for him,” I say, my voice thicker too. “Dancing with Brewser is kind of like playing with Lydia. It helps me feel involved and it’s fun and proof that he’s still okay and some things can get better.” I pause and take in her smile. “Thank you for that,” I say.

Her gaze bounces up to mine.

“I have a confession,” she says softly.

She’s going to tell me she’s my stalker. I brace myself. I’m ready to hear it. And I’m going to kiss the hell out of her when she says it. “Okay.”

“There’s no dance competition in New Orleans.”

I blink at her. It takes a second for those words to sink in because they are not what I was expecting. “There’s…not?”

“Brewser made that up,” she says. “I’m not sure why. I think to make the whole thing seem more legit. To give us a reason for doing it.”

“Just wanting to do it for the Parkinson’s isn’t enough?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I suppose he thought if his friends found out we were dancing, he would need another reason, since they don’t know about the Parkinson’s.”

I nod. That makes sense. “Okay. So, we’re just dancing. For the strengthening and coordination and stuff.” I pause. “And for fun.” I pause again, second-guessing my next words, but then say them anyway. “And to get to spend time together.”

I could, of course, mean spending time with Brewser.

But I don’t.

And I think she knows it.

Emotions—surprise and pleasure—flicker through her gaze. She smiles. “Yeah. For all those reasons.”

It occurs to me that I’m going to have to keep this going. It’s the perfect reason to spend time with her away from Beckett. Hell, away from anyone else.

I look down at a plate next to my right hand. I pick up the little treat and hold it up.

“Do you like pumpkin flavored things?”