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)
Three minutes later—two minutes ahead of schedule thanks to the speedy valet—Weaver is pulling out of the hotel driveway and onto the road.
“Do you need me to navigate?” I ask, chewing on my lip, my anxiety spiking higher now that there’s nothing to do but sit and wait.
I wanted to drive, but I knew better than to ask. Weaver is an excellent driver and he’s the safer choice. I wouldn’t want someone as panicked as I am driving me anywhere. That’s for sure.
“No, it’s all set.” He nods toward the map on the dashboard’s screen, which is already guiding us in the right direction.
“Oh,” I say, feeling dumb. “Sorry. I should have seen that.”
“Stop apologizing.” He reaches over, resting his hand on my thigh for a beat, waiting until I relax beneath his touch before giving it a gentle squeeze. “Eat your sandwich and have some coffee.” He shoots me a sympathetic glance before returning his attention to the road. “But maybe not too much coffee. You’re already pretty wired.”
“I am,” I agree, forcing my muscles to relax into the warm leather seat. Exhausting myself with fear and worry before we even get to the hospital isn’t going to accomplish anything. I need to save my energy to be there for Gramps and the rest of my family. “But coffee still sounds good, and I’m actually starving. We had five courses last night. How am I this hungry?”
I reach for the bag at my feet, fetching the sandwich with the “G” written on the foil for myself and passing the one with “W” on it over to Weaver. Mine is bacon, egg, and cheese. His will be just bacon and cheese because he likes his eggs scrambled and alone on a plate.
I know these things about him already. And he knows so many things about me. It’s crazy how comfortable I feel with him after only a week, but I’m so grateful I do. I wouldn’t want to be making this drive with someone who didn’t make me feel completely safe and supported.
Hell, I wouldn’t want to be making this drive with anyone else, I realize, not even Maya or Elaina. I love my besties, but they’re both even more emotional than I am. Weaver’s cool, calm, bossy side comes in handy in lots of situations, but especially in a crisis.
“I’m hungry, too,” he says as he unwraps his sandwich. “We did a fair amount of cardio after dinner.”
I sigh, both at the memory of that amazing cardio and how hopeful I felt. Last night, I was on the verge of walking through a portal into a thrilling new world.
This morning, real life is bringing me back down to earth with a vengeance.
My stomach lurches and my throat squeezes so tight, I can barely swallow my next bite.
I can’t leave Sea Breeze with Weaver the way we planned. I can’t. Not now, and maybe not ever. What if Gramps needs long-term care? I couldn’t leave him with Cathy or anyone else. He would be miserable. I’m the only person he can stand underfoot more than a couple hours a day.
I press my lips together, fighting the waves of grief and guilt as they hit, one after the other.
After a few moments, Weaver asks, “Sandwich not up to snuff?”
“What?” I croak, fighting tears for the hundredth time since I hung up with Cathy.
“Your sandwich. Is it bad?” he asks. “You only took two bites before you stopped eating. If it’s bad, I can get you something else from the hospital cafeteria.”
I jerk my attention his way, the vice around my throat giving way as shock frees up my airway. “What? You can’t come in.”
“I can, and I will,” he says, adjusting the rim of his simple beige ballcap. “That’s why I bought this disguise at the gift shop while you were showering.”
I let my gaze skim down his body, taking in his outfit for the first time. He’s wearing a white “Saint Mary Yacht Club” sweatshirt that totally isn’t his style. He still has on gray suit pants—Weaver isn’t a khakis or jeans kind of guy—but his overall look is much more casual than usual. The baggy sweatshirt conceals his chiseled upper body and the cap sits low enough on his face to cast half of it in shadow.
But still…
He’s still obviously Weaver Tripp and my family is going to know him on sight.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but no, you can’t. This is going to be hard enough without having to answer questions from my family about why I was out of town with a Tripp. Especially you.” I shudder as another realization dawns. “And my dad might be there. He’s not into family stuff most of the time, but if he was remotely sober when Cathy called him, I’m sure he’s on his way to the hospital. He loves Gramps.”