I didn’t need poetic words or dramatic statements of adoration.
These words, written from the heart, and the emotions that brought them forth were what we would build our lives on.
With careful hands, I folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I wondered if this would be the only love letter I would get from Brody.
Even if it was, it wouldn’t matter. Because he didn’t just write these words, he lived them. Every day of those short weeks we were together he showed me how he felt. His actions spoke far more than anything he could say or write.
I realized my cheeks were damp and grabbed a tissue to dry the tears. I couldn’t tell him he’d made me cry with this letter. I’d never live it down.
Without giving myself time to think, I grabbed my phone to text him.
I miss you. I’m giving you 7 days. If you haven’t made your move by then, I’m sneaking into your office dressed as a repair guy.
I hit send and within seconds I could see the dots at the bottom of the screen that signified he was typing.
So you got my letter?
I laughed. I could almost hear the smirk in his voice.
I did. I’m thinking of framing it and hanging it somewhere highly visible when my brother comes over.
More dots.
Do you want him to kill me? Or just tease me without mercy?
Ouch. That was almost insulting. Before I could reply, he was typing again.
Ignore that. It was stupid.
I laughed and sent my own reply.
You were *this* close.
He didn’t answer right away but I figured he was probably at work and got interrupted.
I’d like to be that close. This will be over in a few days and we will be. I promise. I have a client coming in but you’ll be hearing from me soon.
My heart thumped hard in my chest at the thought.
Good. I’ll see you then.
His reply was an emoji blowing a kiss. Feeling goofy, I sent him a bunch of hearts in several different colors. When he didn’t reply, a wave of sadness washed over me.
I hoped he was right about everything being over soon. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer before I made good on my threat to wear a disguise and sneak into his office.
33
If anyone had ever told me I would need a man as much as I needed Brody Murphy, I would have called them a liar.
Then I would have to apologize after the week I spent waiting to hear from him. Every day, every time my phone would ring, my heart would stop for a split second.
I worried about him, and Jacks, every single day. I wanted to know they were both okay. That Monica hadn’t succeeded in her evil scheme.
I also wondered what Monica had done when she realized that she no longer had leverage over me. I almost wished I could have seen her face when she heard the news.
I only hoped that my actions hadn’t pushed her to jumpstart her campaign against Brody.
I wrestled the urge to call Brody every single day and tried to keep busy. My house and the store had never been so clean or organized, mostly because I spent every waking minute doing something. And there were a lot of waking minutes because I was having trouble sleeping.
Lack of sleep was also directly contributing to my foul disposition and almost daily headaches.
Speaking of, I had a horrific headache at that very moment. It felt as though a ghost had found a non-corporeal ice pick and shoved it into my head via my eye.
Every time I blinked or my heart beat, it hurt.
After the third time I sucked in a sharp breath from the pain, Sierra looked at me and tossed her bar mop towel down on the stainless countertop.
“Go home,” she commanded.
"I'm fine," I shot back.
"You're not. You look like crap and based on your pupils, I'm pretty sure you have a migraine. Go home, take some meds, and rest. It's slow for a Tuesday and if I get desperate I'll call in one of the other girls."
"But the after dinner rush will start—"
Sierra pointed a finger toward the back. "Go. Home. Or I'll call your dad and tell him you have a migraine and you're refusing to take anything for it."
I winced. My father, being a doctor, never hesitated to tell someone to stop being a stubborn ass and take their medicine. He was especially short on patience with adults who refused to treat medical issues that they had. Children, he had more tolerance for because he reasoned that medication was an unknown and they were frightened of it.
I caved. "Fine, I'm leaving."
I untied my apron and carried it back into my office. Within a few minutes, I had my purse over my shoulder and I was headed out the back door.
"Call me if you need me," I yelled to Sierra. Then I hissed and cringed at the pain it caused. Man, I was in worse shape than I thought.
"I won't need you," she yelled back. "I'll check on you when I get home."
I knew when I was beat. I also discovered I'd been had when I got home. My father waited on my covered front porch, his medical bag on the ground next to him.
I parked and climbed out of the car. As soon as I was close enough, I said, "I'm fine, Dad. Nothing a little ibuprofen and some rest won't cure."
"Then you won't mind if I decide that for myself."
I sighed. "What happened to the days you just assumed I was faking it when I told you I didn't feel well?"
My dad chuckled as he grabbed his medical bag and stood. "Those days ended when you graduated high school and I knew that you didn't want to skip class."
I made a face at him and unlocked my door. "Why didn't you let yourself in? Did you lose your key?"
"No. I was enjoying the summer day for a little while. Fall will be here soon enough. Plus your mom has it so cold in the office that it resembles the Arctic."
In this part of Texas, cooler temperatures didn't hit until around Halloween. Sweater weather was usually around Christmas. So fall was a long ways off.
I didn't call him out on it, just let him into the house. He waited patiently as I hung up my keys and my purse. He didn't say anything when I left the light off. Though my windows were covered by blinds, they let enough light in that the house wasn't all that dark. And with this headache, the idea of turning on anything more than a dim lamp made me want to cry.
"Go lay on the couch," my dad commanded. "I'll be right back."
During high school, I used to get migraines like this at least once per week, but they'd vanished once I'd graduated. That was about the time my father deduced that my triggers were stress and sleep deprivation.
I'd experienced both of those in spades the past week.
I did as my father directed and stretched out on the sofa. The pain in my head immediately lessened. My eyes closed of their own volition. I sighed as I settled deeper into the cushions.
Something cool and wet was draped over my forehead, which made me sigh again. It felt fantastic.
"Better?" my dad asked, his voice quiet and soothing.
"Yeah," I whispered.
"Where's your ibuprofen?"
"Top shelf of the cabinet in the bathroom. I have a container with all my medicine in it there."
"I'll be right back," he said.
I heard his shoes on the wood floor as he headed toward my bedroom. I was drifting when he returned.