He stepped away and cleared his throat. “I’m late for a meeting. And you’re going to be late for work.”
“I’m calling in today. I’m going back down to the hospital to sit with Ms. Vincent.” At his confused look, I added, “The mother of the boy who stepped between a carjacker with a gun and me.”
“That seems unnecessary. We’ll pay for the boy’s treatment. That should be enough.”
I dug in my heels. “Yes, we’re paying for his treatment. Every penny. And no, that’s not enough. He could still die because of me.”
My father glanced down at his watch. “Fine. Do what you need to do. I have to go.” Without any further discussion, he turned and walked out the door I’d just entered.
I supposed I should be happy he hadn’t questioned me further. But I was too tired and wrung out to care.
Before I’d left the house, I’d put a note for my father on the desk in his office. It was the one spot he was guaranteed to visit when he came home. It seemed even at nine o’clock this morning I’d known that I wouldn’t be returning to the house tonight. Normally, I wouldn’t bother informing him, but after his strange attack of fatherly concern, I’d decided to allay any potential worries.
So the fact that my loaner Mercedes was now parked in the alley behind Voodoo Ink shouldn’t be as big of a surprise. But for some strange reason it was. My sweaty hands clenched the steering wheel as I asked myself why I was here. I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t even know if I’d be welcome.
Whatever Con and I were doing, it wasn’t defined beyond the boundaries we’d set early on. I was supposed to give him a shot. That didn’t mean I had the green light to show up at his place of work and barge in. Oh wait, I’ve already done that.
This is a mistake. I should go home. But by now my father would almost certainly have found my note. I was somewhat surprised that my phone hadn’t lit up with calls from him demanding to know where I was. But I supposed he was letting me be. Adhering to my stipulations.
I should be happy about that. But something about it bothered me all the same. One night after my narrow escape from a carjacking and he wasn’t concerned that I was out and about.
I shook it off. I was thirty years old, and my thoughts were ridiculous.
Moving on.
I uncurled my grip from the steering wheel and pushed aside any lingering doubts. I was here. And as much as I shouldn’t want to, I wanted to see Con. It had nothing to do with a deed and everything to do with needing the strength and protection he’d offered me last night.
Pushing open the back door of Voodoo, I straightened my shoulders—and the lines of my navy jersey wrap dress. My low-heeled gold sandals clicked on the black and white checkered linoleum floor as I made my way to the front counter. I felt odd coming in the back way. Like I was special somehow—when in reality I was probably only a few steps above a trespasser.
I wondered if I’d find Simon’s Charlie sitting there, but it was the same woman I’d seen before. Delilah. Tonight her dress was black with silver moustaches printed all over it.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. If I’d come through the front door, it would’ve been like déjà vu.
She didn’t wait for me to speak.
“Con, visitor.”
“I’m busy,” he called from the direction of his room.
“You might want to get unbusy—” she started, but I lifted a hand.
“It’s okay. I can wait.”
But the buzzing had already quieted, and he rolled backward out the door of his room. This time, it was Con’s eyes widening.
He stood with a quick, “I’ll be right back,” to whomever was in the room, and came toward me.
He jerked his head toward the break room, and I preceded him inside.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve called first.”
“What are you doing here?”
Well, that wasn’t exactly an effusive welcome.
“I…I don’t know,” I replied. Because honestly, I didn’t.
“So why are you here then?” His welcome wasn’t getting any warmer.
“I don’t know,” I said again, before stopping and starting over. “No. That’s not true. I know why I’m here, but I’m not sure what I’m actually doing here.”
Con frowned and crossed his arms. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know.” My words came out louder and an octave higher than I’d planned. “None of this makes any sense. I shouldn’t be here. But there’s nowhere else I wanted to be.”
His frown slipped away, and his expression turned unreadable. I expected a response. I wasn’t sure what response. But I expected more than the silence I got.
I could’ve stamped my foot, but that would’ve been too humiliating. Instead, I asked, “Don’t you have anything to say?” I rubbed my hand down my face. Maybe I was just overwrought. The last twenty-or-so hours had been too much. Maybe I was going to succumb to honest-to-God Southern belle vapors.
Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing.
“You good with waiting?” he asked.
That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say?
“I wasn’t exactly expecting you to drop everything.”
“You drive here?”
“Yeah, but it’s a loaner. No one would know it’s mine.”
“Another flashy Benz?”
“What’s your point?”
“You care if it gets stolen?”