“What are you doing here?” It’s not what she meant to say, not what she wanted to say.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. His hands were stuffed into a navy peacoat, his legs clad in gray trousers that couldn’t hide their muscled perfection. He still wore good shoes, something stylish in black leather. She’d always loved that about him.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Bridge. I just…” He sighed and looked down at the concrete under his feet. “I just need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
She glanced at the door of the house, aware that it was her escape hatch, the only chance she had to put distance between her and the one man she didn’t trust herself around.
But there was something dark in his eyes, something beyond worry, something that looked a lot like fear. He needed to talk. Didn’t she owe him that much?
“All right.” She walked toward him, forcing herself to breathe as she got closer, forcing herself not to keep walking until she could put her arms around his waist, rest her head against his chest.
He opened the passenger door of the car. She slid into the seat and he closed the door, cocooning her in the plush interior. It smelled new, like expensive leather and plastic fresh off the factory floor.
He got into the driver’s seat and looked down at the steering wheel. It took him a minute to speak, the tension stretching into a vibration she could almost hear.
“You look good, Bridge.” He didn’t look at her as he said it.
“You too,” she said.
Good didn’t do him justice. Surrounded by his scent, his big arms close enough to touch, she wanted nothing more than to climb into his lap and press her lips to his, forget everything that had happened between them, everything that was still between them.
“How’s Owen?” he asked.
She wasn’t surprised he knew. He’d probably known five minutes after Will found out. She could only assume he hadn’t put together the end of their relationship and Owen’s illness. If he had, she would have heard about it by now.
“He’s… deteriorating,” Bridget said. “It’s inevitable.”
“I’m so sorry, Bridge. So fucking sorry.”
The anguish in his voice was like a vise around her heart. Of all the people in the world who should feel bad about Owen, she couldn’t bear it that Nolan did, not after she’d taken his mother’s money and broken his heart.
“Thanks,” she said.
“What’s the prognosis?” he asked quietly.
“Death, eventually,” she said. “I wish I could put a positive spin on it, but that’s the truth.”
He reached across the console and closed his hand around hers. A rush of heat traveled from the tips of her fingers to her chest. She had to remind herself to breathe.
“You don’t have to put a positive spin on anything,” he said. “Not for me.”
She looked down at their joined hands. No one had said they expected her to keep up a happy face about Owen, but the pressure was there just the same. Owen suffered every day, watching his youthful body contort before his eyes. Her parents bore witness to it — to the slow death of the little boy they’d brought into the world. They needed her to stay positive. Or pretend to stay positive anyway.
“Do they know how long he has?” Nolan asked.
“Some patients with ALS die quickly, others live for years, decades even, although they continue to lose motor function.”
“Maybe he’ll be one of the lucky ones,” Nolan suggested.
“Maybe.” It was hard to feel like Owen would ever be lucky when the most he could hope for was a longer life in a ruined body.
Nolan withdrew his hand. “I heard you’re working for Seamus.”
She blinked. It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say next. “Did Will tell you that?”
She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice, the moment they’d just shared forgotten under her shame.