“Not really.”
My eyes drift to his hand, resting casually against the worn wood-grain tabletop, its massive size all the more pronounced next to my dwarf wineglass. “You probably should avoid alcohol anyway right now, being on meds?”
“You’re probably right,” he murmurs, a secretive twinkle in his eye that brings another uncontrollable and embarrassing flush to my cheeks.
I turn away from him, this time to wash my hands. “We have milk . . . water . . . ,” my eyes drift to the coffeemaker my dad got me, “coffee that won’t poison you . . . tea . . . SunnyD.”
“They still make that?”
“They do.”
“I think I was about seven when I had that last.” He chuckles.
“It’s my daughter’s,” I lie, embarrassed. I can’t imagine the women he associates with drinking anything but martinis, vintage wine, and organic smoothies.
After a pause, “Let’s go with the kid juice.”
I set to getting him a glass, the simple task taking longer on account of my wrist.
When he speaks again, his voice is much softer, more hesitant. “You were yelling at me that night, weren’t you. When I was in the car?”
A long, shaky breath sails from my lips. Yes . . . Until my throat was raw. So he did hear me. “You wouldn’t wake up.”
“All I remember is driving along that road and the fog, and Seth talking about the new lines and how it was a bad idea for the coach to switch them up. Then suddenly a woman was screaming at me from somewhere far away. And it was hot.”
I nod absently as I pour his drink. “I’ve never felt anything like that fire before. When the entire car went up, I was afraid the bulrushes in the ditch would ignite from the heat alone.”
“How long did it take you to get me out?”
“I don’t know. It was all a bit of a blur. Emergency response was there in about four minutes, and I managed to get you out just before they came.” I gave up on you. I turned and started to walk away. Did you hear my screams of “I’m sorry,” too?
Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to meet his gaze now. Everyone’s praising me for saving his life, but I was going to leave him there to die.
I’ve had my back to this man for far too long and now I have no excuse, unless I decide to wash my sink load of dishes.
With a deep breath, I walk over to the table to set his glass down in front of him. Then I turn my attention on righting my chair, picking up the broken rungs. I should be able to glue them back. Again.
“How’d you hurt your wrist?”
Something else to look at, to distract myself with, so I don’t have to meet his searching eyes. I took the tensor bandage off earlier, to allow my skin to breathe and to give my fingers a chance to stretch. My wrist is back down to normal size now and the coloring is more yellowish green, not nearly as ominous looking. “When we tumbled into the ditch, I guess. I didn’t feel it until after.” Maybe I should put the bandage back on now, though. My thoughts are so frazzled, I may forget and bump it against something. Where did I put that—
“Catherine.”
I inhale sharply at the sound of my name on his tongue. I’ve always hated my name. It’s so ordinary. Even the spelling is unimaginative. When I was eleven, I went through a phase where I spelled it “Kathryn,” because I wanted to be different. It threw everyone for a loop and pissed my mother off something fierce. Teachers kept asking me to spell my name correctly and I refused, earning me a trip to the principal’s office.
Hearing Brett say my ordinary, unimaginative name in his deep, gravelly voice for the first time makes me hear a simple beauty in it I’ve never experienced before.
“Yes?”
“Can you please sit down?”
Gathering my nerve, I slide into the chair opposite him, taking a sizable gulp of my wine, hoping that’ll help combat the tension.
And then I meet his gaze.
He has what I would call “soul-searching” eyes. They meet yours, but they don’t just look at you. They look into you, delving deeper, beyond the layers and guises, to uncover who you are at your core.
Or maybe it’s just me he’s trying to read.
After a long moment, he matches my earlier move, bringing the rim of his glass to his full pink lips, downing half the cheerful orange liquid in a few big gulps.
I may never wash that glass again.
“I’m sorry I invaded your house like this. I just . . .” Even beneath the mangy beard, I can see Brett’s strong, angular jaw tense. “I needed to talk to you before they got hold of you.”
They. The media, I’m assuming.
“Do you think they’ll get bored sitting out there?”
He smiles sadly. “They’re too much, even for me, and I’ve grown up with it. I can’t imagine what all this is like for you. I get why you’d want to avoid it.”
I shrug. His worry for me—and how plain it is on his banged-up face—is endearing. “There never was any way to avoid it forever. I guess it’s kind of good that it’s finally out in the open. I’ve been dreading it for a week now.”
He nods slowly. “So, that was your boyfriend who spoke on the news?”
“Oh, God. No!” I roll my eyes. “And if you hear that I’ve been arrested for killing him tomorrow, don’t be surprised.”
Brett’s face lights up with his laugh, a beautiful and deep melodic sound that breaks apart the thick cloud of tension, and I start giggling along with him. Thank God Brenna sleeps like the dead, at least for the first few hours. “Who is he, then?”
“My boss’s nephew. I agreed to go on a blind date with him that night, and it was the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life.”
Brett searches my features, a hint of a smirk touching his lips. Aside from the quick appraisal of my house, I don’t think those eyes have left my face this entire time. It’s unnerving. “I’m guessing it wasn’t so bad, in his opinion?”
“He doesn’t seem to have clued in yet, no.”
“And he thought he’d take full advantage of the situation by promoting his dealership.”
“I’m glad it was that obvious.” I down the rest of my wine and consider going for a refill, but I don’t want this guy thinking I’m a drunk, so I stay put. “So you said in your news thing this afternoon that you’re going to make a full recovery. That’s great.”
For the first time since I sat down, he averts his gaze from me to wander over my kitchen cupboards, an odd, hard expression flickering ever so quickly. He takes another big gulp of his SunnyD, his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow, before setting the glass down carefully.
“So . . .” His eyes drift from my face, over my shirt. “You like cats?”
I instinctively fold my arms over my chest, feeling all the more self-conscious in my underwhelming A-cup size. “Only the angry kind.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “How on earth did you pull me out of that car? You’re so small.” He lifts his hands up, palm out. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m sure you’re really strong and all, I just can’t see how you did it. I mean, I was imagining a”—his voice cuts off, his brow furrows deeply—“a different sort of woman. But you’re so small and I’m . . . well, look at me.”
I’ve barely stopped looking at you. God, and I’m blushing again. “You must have come to at the last minute and stood.”
His head is already shaking. “I have a broken tibia and a shattered ankle, my shoulder was dislocated, and I had a major concussion. I wasn’t capable of pulling myself out of a bucket seat.”
“Well, then . . .” I let my words drift. I guess that means I, Catherine Wright, pulled a man double my size out of a burning car.
“Well, then . . .” he matches, ensnaring me with his intense eyes. They hide unreadable thoughts I’m suddenly desperate to know.
The spell is broken when Keith hollers at someone outside. “Hey! You want to be arrested for trespassing? No? You’ve got three seconds to . . . Oh, you want
to take pictures of me? Sure. Okay . . .” His shouts fade as he no doubt charges for whoever’s testing him, the porch steps creaking under his weight.
“You know they won’t leave you alone, right?”
I sigh. “Until they get their story, yeah, I know.”
His fingertip absently traces the wood grain of my table. “What are you gonna do?”
Just the idea of having a TV camera pointed at me makes me tense up. “I figured Brenna and I would hole up in here for a while, until I figure things out.” But for how long? We can’t stay here forever. When will it be safe to send her to school? If they hound me at my doorstep, will they have the audacity to track my daughter, too?
Brett’s face softens at the mention of Brenna, and he glances behind him, toward the bedroom doors. “That’s your daughter’s name? Brenna?”
I smile and nod.
“She’s sleeping?”
“Obliviously.”
“How old?”
“Five. Six in July.”
“You must have been really young when you had her.”
“Eighteen.”
His mouth opens, but then he hesitates. “What you did for me, it’s a pretty amazing story. People will want to hear it. From you. I wish I could make it all go away, but I’ve been dealing with these people long enough to know I can’t. If you want my advice, it’s best to just get it over with.”
I groan. “That’s what Keith said.”
“Then he’s a smart guy. You should listen to him.”
“He has his moments. But don’t tell him I said that.”
Brett’s chair creaks in protest as he leans back against it. “No pressure at all, but if you want, we can set up an exclusive interview with someone reputable. Give them your story, let people hear it, and they’ll move on to the next thing fast enough. Honestly, waiting will only make it worse. They’re already looking for anything they can on you.” A frown flickers over his brow.
“Yeah, I saw the news.” He doesn’t have to explain further. “It was a long time ago. I thought I was in love. I didn’t think . . .” I fumble over my words. “I was just a stupid teenager who—”
He reaches across to grasp my hand around the stem of my glass. My tongue stops working under that touch. Does he feel what I’m feeling, too? Is his heart racing right now? Or is it just me?
“I don’t care about any of that, and you don’t have to explain yourself.” He lets go and reaches into his pocket with a slight grimace. He pulls out and slides over a folded piece of paper that he obviously prepared before coming here. “Here’s my number. Think about doing the interview and let me know. And you can call me anytime, day or night. Anything you need. Absolutely anything, I’m serious.”
I reach for the paper, our fingertips sliding against each other again. A strange current courses through me, making me keenly aware of every square inch of my skin. The paper’s still warm from sitting in his back pocket. I collect it in my fist, reveling in his body heat.
Brett shrugs. “And who knows? We could probably get a bidding war started. Someone may cut you a big check for this.”
“What?” I blurt out.
I think he mistakes my shock for excitement, because he smiles. “They say they don’t pay for news stories, but that’s bullshit. Everyone wants to hear from the woman who saved me. You may as well cash in on it.”
I can’t keep the scowl from showing. “I don’t want to cash in on this. That’s not why I helped you. I’m not one of those people.” Is that what Brett thinks I am? Someone who looks for ways to make money from tragedy? Someone like my mother?
Or is it because I’m on welfare. Have they reported that yet? It’s not like I want to be on food stamps and getting checks for rent, but I don’t have much choice, with a child and only my GED, which I finally got three years ago.
His eyes widen with apology. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. People do it all the time. I just figured . . .” His eyes flicker across my living room before snapping back to me, as if he just realized what he was doing.
Yes, I could use the money. But I won’t cash in on a tragic car accident to get it.
“I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to suggest. I don’t know why I did. I guess I’m just used to . . .” He finishes off under his breath with, “those kind of people,” and then sighs. “Either way, it’s still a good idea to do an interview. My publicist can set it all up for you. And I can be there with you, if you want.”
Would that be better or worse for my nerves, having Brett in the room with me? With a shaky sigh, I nod. “I’ll think about it, but the TV thing isn’t me. I don’t like having a spotlight on me. I don’t want that life.”
His lips twist. “You mean my life?”
“I’m just saying that it’s not for me. I need things to be simple for me and for Brenna.” My gut tells me that he and Keith are right. I just need to get this over with and move on, and hopefully not humiliate myself, or my daughter, in the process.
Speaking of Brenna . . .
I glance at the analog clock on my ancient avocado green stove—the landlord refuses to replace that relic, fixing it himself every time it tries to die—to check how long I have before she’s likely to wake. A few hours yet. But if she finds Brett here, I’ll never get her back to sleep.
Unfortunately, Brett takes that as a signal that I want him to leave. “I should probably get back to Philly.” My table groans in protest as he uses it for support to stand.
“No. I didn’t mean to . . .” I let my words drift. What am I going to do, beg him to stay? “You didn’t drive yourself here, did you?”
He chuckles, slowly easing himself onto his crutches. “No. I have a driver. He’s waiting outside with Officer Singer.” He heads for the door.
I move past him, intent on opening it for him.
“Wait.”
The single word is uttered in a soft whisper and yet somehow makes me jump.
Brett hobbles toward me, his face twitching with pain, until he’s mere inches away. Towering over me, forcing my head back. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was expecting when I got here, but it wasn’t you and I was nervous.”
“You were nervous?” I can’t stop the weak giggle from escaping my lips.
His eyes roam my face. “It’s not every day that someone saves your life. And then I saw you and . . .” The softest sigh escapes his lips. “I haven’t actually said ‘Thank you’ yet.”
I train my eye on his Adam’s apple. He saw me and what? “There’s no need.”
“Of course there is. I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for the past week, thinking of what I’d say when I finally met you, and here I am now and even though I’m talking, I feel completely speechless.” He reaches up to toy with a wayward stand of my hair. I’ve all but forgotten my disheveled appearance at this point. “And in awe.”
“You’re in awe?” I snort, and then my cheeks burn bright with embarrassment and I avert my gaze to the floor, because I just snorted in front of Brett Madden.
“I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”
“Anyone would have done the same.”
“No. That’s not true. A lot of people would not have done the same. A lot of people would have taken one look at the car and not bothered. Or they would have seen the first flame and run.” His large hand gently and completely wraps around my biceps, his touch both soothing and inducing heart palpitations. “You’re half my size, you have a child, and you did the impossible, and because you did that, I’m standing here right now.”
I almost left you there.
I can’t shake my guilt. I avert my gaze to study the old floor. And his navy blue Nike sneakers. Or rather, his sneaker, since the other foot is in a cast. “I’m just glad it worked out.”
His hand settles under my chin, pushing against it until I lift my head.
With a deep, shaky breath, I meet Brett’s eyes, rimmed with dark bruising yet still beautiful. And glistening with moisture now.<
br />
A strange, unexpected bubble of warmth swells inside my chest at this very vulnerable side of him.
Hooking his free arm around my shoulders, he awkwardly pulls me in tight against him, resting his chin on top of my head.
Despite my apprehension, I can’t help myself. I melt, my cheek against his firm chest, my arms slipping around his trim waist, until I hear the sharp inhale and I assume I’m hurting him. I begin to pull away but his arm only tightens around me, squeezing me against him. I can feel every contour of him. He must feel the same of me.
I silently pray that my hair doesn’t smell like the batch of battered fish that Leroy burned in the kitchen this afternoon. I didn’t have the foresight to shower right after work.
Brett doesn’t seem to be in a rush to let go, so I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the warmth of him, losing myself in the fantasy that this is more than just the embrace of a grateful man.
A knock sounds on the door, a moment before it creaks open. I immediately pull away just as Keith and a giant, burly guy step through. I’m guessing that’s the driver, though I’d peg him as the bodyguard.
“Your mother just called me,” the man says in a deep baritone.
Brett sighs. “I’m going to assume she’s the reason why my phone’s been vibrating nonstop in my pocket?”
It has? He never glanced at it, not once.
A slight smile touches the driver’s face. “She doesn’t sound too happy. Says you were supposed to take your pills two hours ago.”
“Yeah. I was in a rush to get here and I forgot. I’m starting to regret that.” He winces in pain as he turns to peer down at me. “I’m serious about setting up the interview. Let’s get them off your back, Catherine.”
There’s my name on his tongue again. My body hums with excitement as I offer him a tight smile. “We’ll see.”
He does another brief visual sweep around my house. “Until then, you should think about staying with family.”
There’s no way I’m bringing this to my parents’ doorstep. And I refuse to be driven from my home by those assholes. “We’ll be fine here. The drapes are all drawn. They’re not going to break in.” I look to Keith for confirmation. “Right?”