“Sorry,” he says soothingly. “Let me see if I can ease your mind. We just went through this in my family with my da. The good news is, if caught early and treated, it can prevent a real stroke. Medications. Diet. Maybe surgery depending on what they find. Try not to worry. This kind of event is a warning not a death sentence. Far from it.”
I exhale through my nose, eyes scanning for the exit I know too well.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I acknowledge after a beat. “You didn’t have to.”
He shifts in his seat. “I wanted to make sure you got here safely so you could be with your family.”
“It’s…sudden. He’s not old. He’s active. Last week he was losing his mind about shrimp prices.” I manage a laugh, barely.
Traffic slows to a near halt. Brake lights stretch ahead in a glittering red snake. The sky’s pitch black though it’s barely five. Typical November.
Then, Seamus’s right hand pats my knee and rests there. “He’s gonna be okay.”
His simple touch—steady, warm, grounding—cracks something open inside me I’ve been holding together with stubborn pride and metaphorical paperclips for years.
Seamus’s hand on my knee isn’t sexual. It’s not overt. It’s comfort. It’s presence. It’s the unspoken understanding of a man who doesn’t expect me to be strong every second of the damn day.
For someone like me, who’s built an entire life pretending I don’t need this type of support… It’s devastating.
Heat spirals up my spine. Not desire—at least, not only desire. It’s something more dangerous. Terrifying.
I lean back and close my eyes. For a breath. For a moment.
Because right now, I need a small break.
The air between us is thick. Heavy. The kind of quiet making me hyperaware of everything—his presence, the way he smells faintly of cedar and spice. I feel him looking at me every so often, but stay exactly as I am. Afraid to break the spell.
“You haven’t said anything about the deposition.” His voice is soft. Curious.
I don’t move a muscle. State the truth. “You were perfect.”
“Seriously?” His eyes widen.
“Seriously.” I allow myself to steal a glance at him, and something clenches in my chest. “You were clear, confident. You didn’t take the bait. You kept the focus on Caldwell. I think Luther was caught off guard by what an excellent witness you were.”
He exhales and slouches slightly and doesn’t break contact with my knee. “So…what happens now?”
“I think they’ll make an offer,” I eke out. “A real one.”
“If they don’t?”
I grit my teeth. “Then we go to war.”
“Wow.” He chuckles under his breath. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“You already did. You’re lucky I’m forgiving.” My lips curl into a smile.
The moment lands between us—soft, teasing. Underneath it, something heavier simmers.
It’s been five weeks since the night I confessed embarrassing truths I’ve never told anyone and heard things from him I still don’t know how to process.
He told me I was beautiful. That he couldn’t stop thinking about me. That he fantasized about me and jerked off to me every night, after I told him I’d never been loved. Not really. Not in the way I’ve always wanted. Hell, he knows my deepest secret—I’ve spent most of my life feeling like a loser at love.
Since then…radio silence. Emails, brief and businesslike. Dry. Because it had to be.
Didn’t stop the dreams, though. If anything, they’ve become more vivid.
We reach the exit and I direct him all the way to the driveway of my parents’ house. He barely manages to throw the car into park before I’m out the door and running up the walkway. He’s not far behind.
