“Did you need something?” she asked.
“Came to apologize. About what I said outside Lyla’s. I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders fell. “I’m sorry we woke you up last night. I should have left the window closed but it was stuffy.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
In truth, it hadn’t been the kid’s crying that had woken me up. It had been a pair of headlights. By the time I’d shoved out of bed and blinked the sleep of fog away, I’d only caught the glow of taillights down the road.
I’d chosen Juniper Hill because it got no traffic. But every now and then, someone would take a wrong turn. Or high school kids would think they’d stumbled on a deserted road
where they could park and go at it in the backseat only to come up on my house.
After the car, that’s when I’d heard the kid. Once I’d heard his cry, I couldn’t not hear it. It had carried through the night, bringing with it memories I’d tried for years to forget.
“Well . . . I’m still sorry,” Memphis said.
“Do you always apologize this much?” I teased. I thought maybe it would earn me a smile. Instead, she looked like she was about to cry.
“I guess I’m making up for the apologies I should have made but didn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Never mind.” She waved it off with a flick of her delicate wrist. “Thank you for your apology.”
I nodded, turning to leave, but stopped myself. “Don’t worry about the window. Leave it open at night if that helps.”
“Okay.”
Without another word, while I could still stop myself from asking more questions, I ducked out of the room and returned to my kitchen.
IT WAS after midnight by the time I made it home. The sky was dark. So was the loft. I slipped inside, stripped out of my clothes and rushed through a shower.
It was warm in the house, too warm, so I cracked a window before flopping on the bed. With a sheet tugged over
my bare legs, I was seconds away from sleep when a piercing wail split the air.
A light turned on above the garage. It only seemed to make that baby scream louder.
That tiny cry was like a dagger to my heart.
It was the sound of a dream lost. The sound of a family gone.
I rolled out of bed and slammed the window closed. Then I snagged my pillow, carrying it to the other side of the house.
Where I slept on the couch.
CHAPTER FIVE
MEMPHIS
The microwave in the break room dinged. With my fork between my lips, I carried the steaming container to the round table in the corner. Lunch wasn’t fancy—none of my meals were fancy these days—but my mouth watered as I stirred the yellow noodles before blowing on a bite. I had the fork raised to my lips when a large body filled the doorframe.
“What is that?” Knox asked.
I set my utensil down and glanced at myself. “What?”
“What are you eating?”
“Macaroni and cheese.” Duh. I bit back the smart-ass remark and didn’t point out that most chefs were familiar with the concept of mac ’n’ cheese. I was treading lightly where Knox was concerned. Well . . . where everyone was concerned but especially him.
It had been nearly a week since our coffee collision, and I’d only seen him in passing. Until I had a replacement rental lined up, I was giving Knox a very wide berth.
Apartment hunting had been unsuccessful at best. Every Thursday when the local newspaper came out, I scoured the classifieds for a listing, but nothing new was available. I’d called the real estate office in town, hoping they might have a
lead, but the woman I’d spoken to had no information and she’d warned me that rentals in my price range grew even scarcer through winter.
Eviction was not an option. Avoiding Knox would be the key to staying in his loft until spring.
I’d spent the past weekend resting and playing with Drake.
We’d braved the grocery store for some essentials and then I’d taken him to a local park for a walk beneath the colorful fall trees. I’d walked into my Monday morning shift with more energy than I’d had in weeks. But today was Thursday and Drake had been up last night for three hours.
Knox needed to leave me alone so I could scarf these simple carbohydrates in the hopes they’d give me a boost to finish the day.
He had a pen and notepad in one hand. Sometime in the last week, he’d trimmed his beard, shaping it to the chiseled contours of his jaw. The sleeves of his chef’s coat were pushed up his forearms like he always seemed to do, and even though it was a fairly shapeless garment, it molded to his biceps and broad shoulders.