She climbs to her feet like she’s discovering them for the first time.
I know that feeling.
When your entire world has shifted and you know that you’ve had this body for years, but you suddenly can’t remember how to use it.
When you’re totally alone, because no one else can possibly understand this empty void that’s lurking in your chest, and you don’t want to be the burden on them, but you don’t know how you can put one foot in front of the other to do what needs to be done either, because moving boulders requires help, except no one else understands how big that boulder is.
“Did you ever find out what happened to them?”
She shakes her head. “Every once in a while I hear through unofficial channels that there might be a lead, but it never pans out. I’ll probably never know.”
I’m standing in the middle of a bridge.
I can go to my right, the safe route, and ask her to leave my house. Call Pakorski. Get her completely out of my life for good, and secure the Fireballs, which is all I really wanted in the first place. The only future I’ve been able to see since Jessie died.
Or I can veer left, where there are potholes and danger signs, and trust that if I leap over that gaping hole between the bridge and the land on the other side, that she’ll toss me a rope, and we can work together to climb the mountains and put out the fires and ford the raging rivers together.
I rise too, and she turns to lift her face to me. “I’m sorry for—”
“Your loss,” I finish for her.
I wrap one arm around her waist, stroke her hair with my other hand, and pull her into my body.
If nothing else, this woman knows loss.
She knows heartbreak.
And she knows coming out on the other side.
There aren’t a lot of people in my life who understand that.
Her breath shudders out of her, and all the stiffness in her seeps away as she slips her arms around my back and squeezes.
Hard.
While her head settles against my chest, right over my pounding heart.
I don’t know where we go from here.
But I know my entire view of Lila Valentine has just shifted, and my world will never be the same.
21
Lila
Tripp Wilson gives the best hugs.
Being in his arms is both soothing my adrenaline and sending my erogenous zones into heaven all at the same time, and I can’t deny just how much I’ve missed him.
His arms—god, his arms. They’re solid shields from everything in the world that’s ever scared or worried me. His fingers tangled in my hair, his breath tickling my scalp, that grip…this is the security I’ve craved since my life was turned upside down, even when I denied that I needed help.
I know he’s only human.
I know I’m no safer in his arms than I am anywhere else in the world.
But I fit here.
His heart is thundering under my ear, and he smells like Lysol and laundry detergent and…something else.
Like he hasn’t showered in a month.
I don’t mind sweaty male, but something is very, very wrong here. “Tripp?”
“Hmm?”
“Your kids are sick?”
His entire body goes tense, and I’m reminded that while he’s apparently my happy place, I’m still not in the circle of trust here. I pull back and take his thick-scruffed cheeks in my palms.
His eyes are bloodshot with dark circles under them. His hair is showing a few more strands of silver amidst the dark brown. And my fury with Uncle Guido ratchets up another seven thousand degrees.
He didn’t just ambush the man who wants to buy my baseball team.
He ambushed a single dad who’s been dealing with sick kids for almost a week.
I need to fix this. All of this.
And not just because I have to, but because I want to.
“Have you eaten?” I demand.
One dark brow lifts, which I decide is Tripp-speak for I refuse to answer that question.
“Today? At all?” I press.
His gaze slides past me, and my heart squeezes.
He takes care of his kids. He’s bending over backward to keep up with all the changes I’m implementing with the Fireballs, because he loves the team and wants them to succeed. What was it Knox’s nana said? That Tripp was the responsible one from Bro Code?
He takes care of everyone.
Who takes care of him?
Me.
I’m going to take care of him.
“You. Shower.” I point up the stairs, where I assume his bedroom is. “And then you’re eating.”
He drops his arms and leaps back, cheeks going adorably pink as he gives his pits a tentative sniff and grimaces. “I’ll…get there.”
I don’t know much about being a parent, but I know from the level of attention I’ve seen him give to his kids that he won’t get there.
He comes dead last in who he takes care of.
He’s even taking care of me. When it’s my fault Uncle Guido snuck over here to try to intimidate him.
“Now,” I reply, and when he doesn’t move, I close the distance between us, grab him by the elbow, and tug.
He doesn’t move.
His lips quirk up, but he doesn’t move.
“I’m a blackbelt in four different styles of martial arts,” I inform him.
That quirk in his lips gets quirkier.
And I don’t think it’s that he doubts me.
I think it’s that he wants me to try to take him out, which is more of a turn-on than it should be right now.
I shift my grip by two inches and press my thumb into a pressure point behind his elbow.
Not hard, for the record. But enough that he gives a squeak and tries to twist out of my reach.
“Shower,” I repeat, and this time, when I tug, he trails me up the stairs.
“The doors—”
“I locked them, and that security team you hired for me is circling the house.”
“Okay. Okay. Jesus. Ow.”
The stairs creak while I march him up. My heart melts a little when we reach the top and I see the doors. Emma’s is completely covered with overlapping scribbled drawings. James’s door has trucks painted on it. There’s a third door with playroom spelled out in rainbow-colored letters, and then one final door.
Still, I pause outside the playroom. “Is this one yours?” I ask.
He catches me with a poke to the ribs, and I spin, but not fast enough to catch him, since he’s already retreating down the hall. “Quiet,” he whispers.
He doesn’t tell me to go away, so I trail him into his bedroom.
Yes, I know.
I’m shameless.
But I tell myself I’m merely making sure the man bathes and changes into clean clothes.
He’s already stripping out of his hoodie and T-shirt when I pause in the doorway, and hello, Tripp Wilson’s chest.
No.
No hello to Tripp Wilson’s chest. This is about meeting his basic needs, not drooling over the man’s broad chest with the springy dark hair and the copper nipples. Or his flat stomach and wide collarbones.
Not when he’s pausing again next to his dark, heavy dresser. “You shouldn’t be in here. It’s germ central.”
I point to the door to the left of his bed.