When he sat, she perched on the edge of the mattress. “Um, what can I do for you?”
His gaze roamed over her. Not in a sexual way, but as if he was checking on her well-being. She could tell him her well-being wasn’t so great. His eyes were so much like his brother’s that she couldn’t bear looking at them. She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“How are you, Skylar?”
Terrible. Heartsick. Dying inside. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not any more fine than my brother is.”
Her eyes snapped up to his.
“Ah, I caught your interest, yeah?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “What are your plans for your future?”
The lump in her throat doubled in size. He was hoping she planned to leave, to get out of his brother’s life. She swallowed hard, and when she was sure she could speak without her voice trembling, said, “Dustin, he’s the sheriff and my previous boss, said he’d hire me back. As a deputy, though, since my chief deputy sheriff’s job was filled when I left.”
“Now why would you want to do that?”
“Wouldn’t that make you happy? I’d be gone. Tristan can move on with his life. I know he’ll be glad to see the last of me.”
He shook his head in a way that said she was a child he didn’t know what to do with. “I don’t know which of you are more stubborn. Not to take sides, but I think he has a bit more reason for his stubbornness where you’re concerned.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“He’s miserable, Skylar. Do you love him?”
She tried to tell him no, but as she looked into Parker’s kind eyes, she couldn’t lie to him. “Yes.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” He stood and walked out, not waiting for her answer. She didn’t have an answer.
The room grew dark as night moved in, and she sat in that dark as his question sat heavy in her mind. What was she going to do about it?
Something or nothing?
Chapter Fifty-Two
“Bath,” Tristan said. A week after getting shot, his arm was only a little sore. He’d been lucky that it had only been a flesh wound. The bullet hadn’t hit muscle, bone, or an artery.
Fuzz yelped with excitement, snatched up his KONG, and raced to the bathroom. Tristan shook his head. He probably had the only dog in the world that loved baths. He tried to find the amusement he always had with Fuzz and his baths. It wasn’t there.
It wasn’t Saturday, Fuzz’s bath day, but Tristan was grasping for anything that would keep his nights busy and not give him time to think. He’d washed his car, Parker’s car, cleaned the house from one end to the other, and then had started over, cleaning until Parker put a stop to it. Apparently, he was upsetting Andrew since the house was Andrew’s domain. You’d think Andrew would welcome the help, but no.
He’d been kicked out of the kitchen when he’d decided to prepare and freeze meals for the following week. Andrew hadn’t liked that either. At least no one had complained when he’d mowed the lawn twice in three days. He hadn’t fared much better at the station. No one was talking to him anymore. They were, in fact, scattering like rats when they saw his snarly ass coming their way.
Whatever.
At least his dog still liked him. Fuzz loved baths because the silly dog would drop his toy in the water, then go diving for it, over and over and over. By the time Tristan could coax him out, the bathroom would be a mess. That was good. It gave him something to do.
Fuzz clean, the bathroom clean, and with nothing left to do, Tristan showered, then warily eyed his bed. Maybe he could sleep tonight. He’d give it a try, and if his mind insisted on thinking about Skye, he’d sneak downstairs and clean something. Andrew had gone home, and Parker would be asleep, so no one would yell at him.
What a surprise, he couldn’t sleep. His mind refused to obey his demand that it not think about Skye. He glanced at the bedside clock. He’d given it an hour. Sleep just wasn’t going to happen. The books in the library could probably use a good dusting. Hell, he bet there was a better way to arrange them than how they were now. How were they arranged anyway? By author or book titles? Whichever it was, they needed to be the other way.
As he was getting out of bed, his phone chimed with a text. He took it out of the charger and stared at the message.
What did the astronaut cook in his skillet?
How did she do that...make his heart beat so fast he could hear the thump of it in his ears? And what did she mean with this text? Answer her or not? Not...he had a library to rearrange. He was halfway down the stairs when he stopped, turned, and stomped back up to his room. The only reason he was going to answer the text was because if he had any hope of sleeping at some point, he needed to know what the astronaut cooked in his skillet.
I give up.