“Great! No, that works perfect. I can absolutely do Monday morning,” she said, straightening and holding on to the phone again. “Yes. Okay. Thank you so much.” She disconnected the call, set the phone down, and turned her head, smiling big as she walked over. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“That was the job I applied for at NHC. The one that had been open for eight months and I thought for sure was filled already. They want me to interview for it.”

“That’s great. You can get back into x-ray.” I picked up the lock of hair she’d been twirling and I tucked it behind her ear, watching her mouth twist into a pout. “You want that, right?”

She hesitated, then answered, “Yeah, I do, I just …I love Whitecaps,” she replied, pressing her hands to my chest. “And I don’t want to short-staff Nate. He’s got so much going on. I’d like to keep working there if I can.” She looked down for a minute to think, sucked on her bottom lip, then looked back up to add, “Once I find out the hours on Monday, I can see if something is manageable.”

Grabbing her hips, I told her, “If it isn’t, if your hours at the hospital don’t allow for you to keep helping out at Whitecaps, you don’t need to worry over it. Nate will understand. Knew it was a possibility you’d be leaving.”

Syd lifted her chin.

“I won’t worry over it,” she whispered.

“Good.” I pulled at the tie on her apron. “Take this off. Wanna take you out to celebrate you getting a new job. This calls for Italian.”

She obliged me and slipped the apron over her head, doing it wearing a look of confusion.

“I didn’t get it yet,” she corrected, tossing the apron on the counter.

“You got it, babe. They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

Syd’s cheeks pinked up again and she gave me that, letting me see it before turning around, grabbing that same paper she’d written on, and quickly jotting something else down.

“Want to make sure Tori doesn’t eat that potpie,” she said while her hand scrawled. “She’ll be home soon from the hair salon and I doubt she’s had dinner.”

I thought Syd was in the clear with Tori leaving that potpie alone, but I kept my mouth shut.

I loved her sass but I wanted to hold on to her sweet right now.

Chapter Sixteen

SYDNEY

Licking peanut butter sauce off my lip, I dug my spoon into the giant sundae glass in front of me while I sat across from Brian in a booth at Friendly’s.

He’d remembered. Coming here after dinner at La Tavola was his idea.

My boy was amazing.

I took another spoonful of vanilla with hot fudge melting into my mouth and moaned with my eyes closed.

Brian chuckled. It was a beautiful sound.

He wasn’t eating anything. Just watching me enjoy every bite, and I was definitely enjoying.

Any minute now I was certain I’d hear a “I’ll have what she’s having” from someone close by.

I blinked my eyes open and smiled, dipped the spoon for another heaping taste, this time mixing ice cream with the whipped topping and also getting chunks of peanut butter cup along with the gooey sauce, making this bite the best bite ever, raised the spoon, and held it out across the table.

“Never shared one of these with anybody,” I confessed through a bat of my lashes. “Wanna be my first?”

I watched Brian’s eyes go soft and absorbing, liking what I’d just said, then I watched him lean forward and take the bite, his full lips pulling slow across the silver and removing every drop, swallowing it after a short savor.

Is it possible to be jealous of cutlery?

Yes. Absolutely.

“Good?”

He nodded, sucking vanilla off his lip.

“Yep.”

“Sure you don’t wanna get something? I don’t mind sharing, but they have other good choices too. Look.” I dropped my spoon into the glass and grabbed the dessert menu, opening it on the table and pointing at it. “Sometimes Barrett would get the Jim Dandy. That’s sorta like a banana split. He didn’t like it as much as the peanut butter cup but he liked changing it up sometimes.”

Brian nudged my foot underneath the table.

I lifted my eyes.

“Wish I could’ve met him,” he said gently.

My belly dipped.

God …

I wished that, too. So much. I wanted to share Brian with everyone who meant something to me. Brag. Gloat. Even show him off to my mother, who I currently wasn’t speaking to.

But Barrett …that would’ve been amazing.

“Me, too,” I replied softly, reaching out and taking the hand he had resting on the table. “Barrett would’ve liked you.”

Brian smiled, twisted his wrist so he could hold my fingers in his palm, and questioned, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“’Cause you’re trouble and he was a badass, just like me. He would’ve appreciated that.”

Brian laughed deep in his chest.

“And ’cause you make me the happiest I think I’ve ever been,” I added. “I think he would’ve appreciated that, too.”

His grip that was already holding firm grew firmer, putting pressure on the bones in my fingers, but nothing I couldn’t stand so I held back and stared, letting him see my happiness and taking his for my own, admiring his warm, contented smile until it was fading and he didn’t have it anymore, not even a shadow of it because his eyes had left mine and were now focusing hard on something behind me.

He grew taller in the booth. His shoulders and arms tensing with flexed muscle and his chest moving air more powerfully.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, starting to turn my head when his grip went from tolerable pressure to unbearable stress and I gasped, struggling to pull away when my fingers started aching.

“Brian,” I urged through a tight voice.

“Get up. We gotta go,” he grated, sounding urgent.

He released my hand and stood quickly, pulled some cash out of his wallet and tossed it on the table, then moved beside me, grabbed underneath my arm, and yanked me out of the booth.

“Brian!” I yelped, startled, gripping his bicep for balance. “What—”

“Now, babe. Move.”

He spun me around and then his strong arm was pulling me close and hurrying us through the restaurant toward the door.

“What’s going on?” I asked as my feet struggled to keep up, looking from his unyielding profile to the room ahead and searching for understanding, some mad person wreaking havoc because Brian was panicked, that was clear.

There was nothing unusual about the scene in front of me. No one being held at gunpoint. No hysteria.

Families sat eating at tables or booths, the waitstaff tended to their duties, and as we made it to the front of the restaurant, I saw the hostess who seated us standing at the podium, greeting what appeared to be a family waiting to be seated.

A husband and wife and their young child, a sweet-looking boy with messy blond hair and anxious ice cream eyes that roamed the room.

His father’s hands were holding the grips on the wheelchair he sat in.

“Brian,” I tried once more over my shoulder when the arm around me became nothing more than a cold push at my lower back, urging me without affection faster to the door.