Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Weaver appears behind me, squeezing the tops of my shoulders. “You had no reason to worry. You were on the boat with him yesterday and he was fine.”
I sniff and squirm away from his comforting touch.
I don’t deserve comfort.
Not when I’m the worst granddaughter on earth.
“Yes, but Cathy told me last night that she couldn’t get ahold of him,” I say. “I assumed he was just dodging her calls because talking on the phone annoys him, but I should have called to be sure. Or texted or…something.” I sniff and swipe at my wet cheeks. “If he dies, and I don’t even get to say goodbye, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Baby,” Weaver begins, but I cut him off with a swift shake of my head.
“No, don’t be sweet to me. I can’t take it. If you’re sweet, I’ll fall completely apart, and we’ll never get to the hospital. I need cold, logical Weaver. Just tell me to pull myself together, get dressed, and get my ass down to the car.”
He sighs, but straightens behind me, the softness fading from his expression. “All right, if you’re sure that’s what you need.”
I nod faster and toss my toothpaste into the bag. “Yes. That’s what I need.”
His hand closes around my wrist, stopping me before I can reach for another toiletry. “Then, that’s what I’ll give you. Stop packing and get into the shower. Right now.”
My jaw drops and an outraged squawk emerges from the back of my throat.
Before I can protest that we have to get going, however, Weaver says, “Look at yourself. Do it,” he insists. “Take a breath and look at yourself in the mirror.”
I do and blanche at the sight of my hair in a wild sex tangle and my tear-puffy face.
But I don’t care what I look like right now.
I tell Weaver as much, adding, “I just need to be with him. Now. Five minutes ago.”
“I’ve already called to have the car brought up to the front,” he says, still holding onto my wrist. “But the parking garage is several blocks away. The valet said it’s going to take fifteen minutes. Take ten of that to grab a quick shower and put on clean clothes. I’ll leave some outside the door for you. While you’re doing that, I’ll pack our things and run downstairs to get breakfast and coffee for the road. That way we can leave as soon as you’re dressed.”
I swallow, my frantic brain parsing quickly through his plan and realizing it’s solid. And a shower will help clear my thoughts after a long night filled with high emotion and not much sleep.
“Okay,” I say, sniffing again as I shoo him out of the bathroom. “Go. Hurry. I’ll be ready when you get back.”
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I crank on the water and strip out of the t-shirt and panties I slept in. I take the world’s fastest shower, run oil through my hair to keep my waves from frizzing, and rub lotion onto my face, before tossing all my toiletries back into the bag. A beat later, I throw open the door and snatch a pile of neatly folded clothes from the floor.
Weaver chose the “going home” outfit I intended to wear on Sunday—a comfy pair of baggy jeans and a sky-blue sweatshirt—and I’m so glad. The thought of putting on the clingy sweater dress and boots I packed for today in an attempt to be fashionable makes me want to claw my skin off.
I’ve just finished dressing and am tying my shoes in the living area when Weaver swings back through the door, a delicious-smelling bag in hand. My stomach growls, and I instantly feel guilty again.
How can I be hungry at a time like this? Gramps could be dying. He might never eat a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich again.
“Even if he lives, he shouldn’t eat bacon, egg, and cheese again,” I say, tears stinging into my eyes. “His cholesterol is too high. I’ve been telling him that for years, but he wouldn’t listen. He said life wasn’t worth living without cheese.”
Weaver crosses the room, pressing the bag of food and the small carrier holding our coffees into my hands. “You can google healthy cheese alternatives on the way to the hospital. Go call the elevator. I’ll get our bags.”
“No, I’ll help, you can’t handle all of it—”
He leans down, capturing my chin in his hand as he whispers inches from my face. “I absolutely can handle all of it by myself. And take care of you at the same time. Go call the elevator, Sullivan, and don’t back talk again until we’re at the hospital.”
Grateful tears in my eyes, I whisper, “Okay. Thank you.”
“I love you,” he says, making the stinging at the back of my nose even worse. “Taking care of you when you need help is my job. You never have to say thank you for that.” Then, he presses a swift, but firm, kiss to my lips and disappears into the bedroom to collect the bags.