“He was taking out the trash,” Mrs. Bessler said and turned to the EMT. “Can you imagine? Asking this sweet old man to do that after he had a bunch of strokes?”
“Only two strokes,” Dale said. “And for God’s sake, woman, I’m not old. And I like taking out the trash.”
“You were taking out the—” Simon drew a deep breath. “Where’s Alison?”
“She tucked me in and I told her to skedaddle. I don’t need no babysitting while I’m sleeping.”
“So why weren’t you sleeping?”
“Because I had to take out the trash.”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and stared down at his feet for a moment. He was barefoot. Shirtless. Because he’d been screwing around—literally—instead of looking after his dad. “I thought we agreed you’d call me if you were leaving the house.”
“I did call you. You didn’t answer. You were on the roof with that pretty girlie of yours, Coma Girl. Hope you got some.” His dad looked him over. “Though by the uptight look on your face, I’m guessing not.”
Both Mrs. Bessler and the EMT gave Simon very judgy, deadpan stares, which he deserved.
“It’s a good thing I was watching from the window and saw him fall,” Mrs. Bessler said. “I called 911 right away.”
His dad turned to the EMT. “Sorry you had to come out this late.”
“No problem.” The EMT looked at Mrs. Bessler. “Are you his wife or caretaker?”
“That’s me. I’m the caretaker,” Simon said, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. Because that was what he was, a caretaker. Not some single guy who could come and go, casually hooking up with . . . whatever Emma was to him. No labels, apparently.
His dad was loaded into the ambulance. Simon hopped in after to sit by his side just as Emma rushed out the front of the building. The skirt of her dress was wrinkled from where he’d shoved it up to her waist. Her hair was wild, as were her eyes. And maybe it was his imagination, but she had a sort of dazed, well-satisfied look to her.
Under any other circumstances, he’d have basked in the memories of the feel of her in his arms, those sexy little sounds she’d made when he’d touched her, how it had felt to be buried deep inside her . . . but all he could think was his dad had just been loaded into an ambulance and it was his fault.
EMMA WAITED UP, but Simon didn’t come back that night. She texted, she called, but nothing. A part of her wasn’t surprised. She’d seen the look on his face as he’d climbed into the ambulance with his dad.
Guilt.
Something she knew a little about. Then he’d looked up and seen her on the porch and something new had hit his eyes.
Regret.
He regretted her. She’d been a mistake.
Her worry about his dad overrode her embarrassment about how the night had gone. Because if she thought about it too long—including how she’d gotten hers and he hadn’t . . . gah.
But damn. There for a moment, it had been sheer magic.
At midnight she gave up trying to sleep and ordered an Uber.
She got dropped off at the hospital, where she tried to get info on Simon’s dad. But HIPAA laws, not to mention COVID-19, had changed the way one could walk into a hospital and get information on a patient.
Frustrated, she had to Uber back to her apartment without any news at all. Once again she tried to sleep, but it wasn’t going to work. So she made a call.
“It’s the middle of the damn night,” Alison answered groggily. “Our place better be on fire.”
Our place. Normally, that would both thrill and terrify Emma. But she couldn’t think past the look on Simon’s face and not worry about his dad. “I’m not calling about the shop.”
“Are you calling to once again grill me on customer service protocols for our soft opening the day after tomorrow? Because I think I can handle it.”
“No, though I still think you could use a lot more practice. I want to know if your uncle’s okay. From his fall earlier.”
Long pause. “How did you know about that?”
“Please just tell me.”
Another long pause, as if Alison was deciding how much to say. “He’s okay. Or at least he will be. Broken wrist, and a thankfully mild concussion.”
“And Simon?”
A much longer pause. “I think we need to set some rules for this business relationship. Such as hours. Eight to five sounds good. After that, and certainly after midnight, I’m unavailable. Goodbye—”
“No, don’t hang up! I need to know that Simon’s okay, that—”
“I’m going to do you a favor, by disconnecting and pretending this call never happened.”
“Alison, please.”
Alison sighed. “Okay, listen. First of all, Simon and I? We have our own rules. They involve trust and loyalty, and never talking out of turn. So if you thought I was the weak link and a cheap way to get deets on my family, you were wrong. And second . . .” She softened her voice. “Simon could have a limb literally falling off and he wouldn’t admit he wasn’t okay. And that’s as close to an answer as you’re ever going to get from me. Goodbye.”
“But—”
But nothing. Alison was gone.
“Dammit.” Emma reminded herself that she had her weekly PT later that day. All she had to do was make it until then and she could talk to Simon herself.
Morning took forever to arrive. When it did, the first thing she did was check her phone. Nothing. She went downstairs and knocked on Simon’s door. More nothing. Pushing away the hurt and unease of not hearing from Simon—which did not bode well for future social orgasms with him—she took yet another Uber, this time with Hog, and they went to Paw Pals. They were closed today in preparation for tomorrow’s soft opening. The “grand” opening would come next week. It was the first thing in Emma’s life she’d had to look forward to in a long time.
It was odd to think she had Alison to thank for that.
Her new partner was behind the counter on the computer, going through the books, setting everything up to suit her.
Emma walked toward the front desk, Hog following more slowly and cautiously, clearly looking for Killer.
“She’s not here today,” Alison told him. “She’s with her dad. You can relax.”
Hog did just that, plopping onto the floor at Miss Kitty’s feet in the sunny spot.
Emma turned to Alison. She’d heard the longing and hurt in her voice, which was interesting. Back in school, Alison had never revealed her personal feelings, ever. “Anything new on Dale?” Emma asked.
“No.”
Emma nodded, then looked around, realizing that as of today, she wasn’t just an employee anymore. She owned the place—well, half—and her heart squeezed. “Oh my God.”
Alison lifted her head. “What now?”
“I think I’m actually . . . happy.” Well, not 100% happy. Ninety percentish—same as her health. That last 10% was worrying about Dale.
And Simon.
“Well, good for you,” Alison said.
“No, you don’t understand. Happy is a rare commodity. We need to soak it all in. Take pictures so we never forget this moment. Quick,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Stop what you’re doing and fake a smile, we need a pic for our new memory board.”