The Second Chance and The Auctioneer (The Love Equation, #3) Read online

Now she remembered more about why they were fighting. “I hate it when you do that.”

  “Think things through?” He helped her up the stairs, not letting go until they reached the kitchen and she sat down.

  “Yes. Freaking infuriating.”

  “At least your brain is working okay.” He kissed her forehead. “Don’t move.” A moment later, he returned with a blanket, a sheet, her bag, and her shoes.

  He tore the sheet into strips, and used one as a makeshift sling, to tie her arm to her torso. His every move was deliberate and gentle. Probably too much so, but she wasn’t complaining. Next, he draped the blanket around her. Being wrapped up didn’t chase away the chill completely, but it helped her stop shivering.

  When they stepped outside, the wind slammed into her full force and sent another shock of pain from her arm and through her body. She stumbled, but Jonathan made sure she didn’t fall. The drive to Dr. Phillips’s house was two parts terrifying, as the car jostled with every gust from Mother Nature, and one part agonizing. Jonathan parked as close as the driveway let him, told her to wait, and sprinted to the door. Moments later, he returned with the doctor.

  She lost track of what happened next. All she knew was she was finally warm and so tired.

  MORE THAN FIFTEEN YEARS later, and Jonathan still hated this place. Not because of Dr. Phillips or anything wrong with the house. It was a lovely two-story Victorian-style home, with pleasant decor. There was even power in this room, thanks to a backup generator kept on hand for cases like this. The last time Jonathan visited was because he almost drowned during a storm a hell of a lot like the one going on now.

  As far as he was concerned, his reason for being here today was a lot worse. He was assured Bailey would be fine. She drifted in and out of consciousness—a result of the painkillers pumping through her, and the mild concussion. Her arm was set and splinted without an issue, and though the doctor didn’t have the equipment here to do a full head scan on her, she was responding all right. She just had to be careful until they could get her to a real hospital for a CT scan.

  For now, Jonathan waited. He muddled through the sympathy about Nana’s passing. Declined the offer to join Dr. and Mrs. Phillips for lunch. Hovered over Bailey in a way she’d hate if she realized.

  Despite how recent their argument was, it felt stupid now. He didn’t regret the things that came out, but his delivery could have used some work. He watched her now, as she slept. Why was it so hard for them to find common ground? They grew up—that changed them—but their friendship lingered. He wished it wasn’t tainted by unshakable memories.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and frowned when the right one touched something. The envelope from the safe. He gave Bailey another glance—she was still sleeping—and tore the letter open.

  A single sheet of paper sat inside, on the stationary Nana always used to write him, in her familiar scrawl. A lump formed in his throat when he saw it was dated the day before she died.

  Jonathan,

  I’m sorry I’ll never see you again. I’m grateful you kept in touch.

  Fate is a funny thing.

  The sudden shift in subjects made him frown, but he kept reading.

  It doesn’t matter how hard you try to avoid it, it always finds you. Except in your case. You’ve dodged yours every step of the way.

  I don’t think anyone’s future should be set in stone, but I hope you stop running sooner rather than later. That you pause long enough to see what’s been right in front of you for so long.

  I love you, and I couldn’t be more proud of you. Never think otherwise.

  Love,

  Nana

  He swallowed past the ache in his chest and stared at the handwritten note, trying to make sense of what she meant about fate. Why did the words nag at him?

  Something rustled, and he shoved the letter in his pocket again. He looked up, to see Bailey blinking a couple of times before completely opening her eyes.

  “Hey.” Her smile looked like it took effort.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Everything hurts, but not as much as it did.”

  He reached for her working hand and grasped her fingers. “Good drugs.”

  “I’ll say. What time is it?”

  “Almost six at night. You slept for a while.”

  She pushed herself into a sitting position, keeping her weight on her good arm. “I’ll say. Phillips isn’t going to make me stay all night, is he?”

  “He said we couldn’t leave until there was a break in the storm.”

  She looked down, and saw she wore a hospital gown. She frowned. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Mrs. Phillips had to cut your shirt off, to get you into something dry, without jarring you too much. I hope it wasn’t a favorite. She’s washing your jeans.”

  Bailey sank back into her pillows with an oof. “It sounds like a ruined top is the least of my concerns. And no, it wasn’t a favorite.”

  “I’m sorry about earlier.” He should wait to have this conversation, but the apology needed to be out there.

  “No, you’re not.” She didn’t look or sound upset. “We both said what we meant to.”

  He couldn’t argue that. “But there were better ways to say it. I’m tired of arguing. I’m not going to yield if I disagree, but there’s got to be a happy medium.”

  “In that case, I’m sorry too.” She squeezed his hand. “And if you’re gone in a few days, we won’t argue anymore anyway.”

  “About that...” The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. He had to analyze the rest of the thought and figure out if he wanted to head down that road.

  She raised her brows in question.

  He had to try. “Come back to L.A. with me.” The suggestion was ludicrous, and wouldn’t be taken back. The longer the idea lingered in his head, the more he liked it.

  Her surprised exhale wasn’t quite the response he wanted. “Wow. I... uh— Wow.”

  “You said this morning you’ve considered a bigger city and that nothing’s keeping you here.”

  “That’s not quite how the conversation went.” She didn’t look upset, but the hesitation wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  “It’s a plan in progress.”

  “My livelihood is here. My sales connections. My regular customers.”

  This was the point where he should concede and tell her he understood. “I’ll help you get re-established.”

  “And then what? You don’t agree with my business plan. What did you say? It wasn’t the kind of thing that made money.” Sadness lined her words.

  “There are ways to improve on the idea. I can help.” Stop talking. Drop it. He refused to listen to the voice in his head.

  She tugged his fingers. “I don’t want help with that.” Her tone was calm and even. “I’m happy with the idea the way it is, and the gallery I want is here.”

  “You wanted to know earlier what could have been thirteen years ago. This is our chance to find out. Minus the sarcastic cynicism.”

  “The teenager in me wants to find out,” she said. “She’s so very desperate for me to say yes. But we don’t know each other. I adore the boy I grew up with. I hope you feel the same, but—you know—the other way around. The problem is, we clash every time the real world rears its head. A lot of that’s on me; I have so much baggage... You’re the one who makes the predictions. How do you think this plays out? I’m guessing I give up my life here, sell everything, and move in with you. Sounds amazing. Until the fighting gets worse and the memories can’t hold us together. Do I have that right?”

  “Real close.” He didn’t want to concede, but she had a point. “The sex is amazing.”

  She smirked. “I can’t argue that, but it doesn’t make a relationship. Ask me again though, and I won’t say no.”

  He was thinking clearly enough to know that would be a huge mistake. “I won’t ask again. Get some rest until Phillips says we can go.” He slumped back in his cha
ir, trying to make sense of what just happened. The conversation felt backwards and nonsensical. Or rather, it should. Instead, the only part that confused him was where it ended with a no.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bailey woke up to sunlight striking her face, and a screaming headache. A weight pressed against her hand, and she forced her head to the side. What she saw made her smile and temporarily erased the pain. Jonathan sat in a chair by her side, head resting on the bed. The clock on the far wall said it was almost eight. She assumed from the sunlight it was morning. Did the storm pass?

  Jonathan stirred and looked up. His hair stuck up in every direction, pale stubble covered his chin, and he had a red mark on his cheek. He looked sexy as heck, and it reminded her of the conversation the night before.

  He gave her a tired smile and scooted back to stretch. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a cinderblock shelf fell on me.” She forced a laugh.

  “Are you two decent?” Dr. Phillips called, seconds before stepping into the doorway. “How do you feel?”

  She’d already used her joke. “Like crap.”

  “To be expected.” He strolled past Jonathan, fitting his glasses on as he walked, then pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket. He held her eyes open and shone the bright light in one and then the other. He tapped, poked, and tested her responses to various stimuli. “The storm broke a few hours ago. As long as you’re up for it, you can go home. But you can’t be alone for the next twenty-four hours. Will that be an issue?”

  Last night she would have said it’ll be fine in a heartbeat. Now she wasn’t sure where she and Jonathan stood.

  “Not an issue.” Jonathan spoke up.

  Dr. Phillips didn’t look surprised. “As long as the weather is calm tomorrow morning, I want you in my office... God willing, it’s still standing. Until we can get you to the hospital, I want to do an X-ray and make sure everything is where it should be. Both the arm and the head. No driving yourself, and he has to wake you up every few hours to make sure you’re responding.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Good. Take your time getting up. No standing quickly. No heavy exertion.” He glanced at Jonathan, and Bailey’s cheeks heated. “Be careful.”

  An hour later, Phillips cleared her to leave. Mrs. Phillips loaned Bailey a tank-top that could be pulled on around the cast without too much effort. A small thing to be grateful for, but Bailey would take whatever she could find.

  The room spun when Bailey sat up and then stood, but it righted itself quickly. There was nothing sexual about the way Jonathan helped her into the top. He cradled her arm, ensuring it wasn’t jarred, and when he tugged down the hem, he glided his fingers over her skin with a tenderness she wasn’t used to when he tugged the hem down.

  On the way out, Mrs. Phillips handed Jonathan a paper bag that looked weighed down. She told him it was leftovers and to make sure both of them ate. She pulled Bailey aside while he took things out to the car. “I’m so happy to see the two of you together. You deserve it.”

  The simple comment, as well intentioned as it might be, sent a cascade of emotion to clutter the inside of Bailey’s head. She didn’t have the strength to correct the older woman, so she simply smiled and thanked her for the hospitality.

  Bailey fell into her own thoughts on the short drive back to Nana’s, and stayed there as she and Jonathan made their way inside. He got her settled on the couch and opened a couple upstairs’ windows, to clear out the lingering smoke.

  Jack and Ale. Up until the point Bailey got engaged to Danny, everyone here assumed she’d end up with Jonathan. Sometimes it was embarrassing, but mostly younger-her loved it and fell into the same fantasy. Now the presumption nagged at her. It was one of the things she both loved and hated about living in such a close-knit community—everyone knew everyone else’s business and that certain things would happen, because people expected them to.

  No one here knew Jonathan anymore, but he’d been a nice boy, and heaven forbid she stay single. The bitter thought bothered her. Or maybe what sat at the heart of it all disturbed her more than anything. His offer echoed over the questions and doubt. It was sweet, despite being misguided. Turning him down was the right thing to do, and once she convinced all of herself, this muddled mess would clear up.

  “You want lunch?” Jonathan’s question carried from the kitchen.

  Her stomach growled. Had it really been more than a day since she last ate? The last twenty-four hours seemed as though they lasted an eternity. “Yes.”

  Moments later, he handed her a plate with pasta salad and fresh vegetables. “Note to self.” He settled into the overstuffed easy chair. “Always visit the house with a backup generator when we forget to stock up for a big storm. I mean—” His head shot up.

  “I know what you mean.” Hello, awkwardness.

  Most of the meal passed in silence, interrupted by Jonathan telling her he’d finish the clean-up work and sorting. She had to tell him what was worth auctioning when he asked. He cleared away the lunch dishes, and she made her way upstairs. The sky was graying again. There was a good chance they’d ridden out the eye of the storm and were in for Round Two tonight. They’d have to shutter the windows again soon, just in case.

  She locked herself in the bathroom and let the silence and solitude wash over her. Pale light bled in through the window—enough to see without power. She let the water run until the cold stung her hand and numbed her skin, then splashed her face. The chill gave her something external to focus on and drew her out of her thoughts. It was getting crowded in her head. She looked up, and her reflection stared back. Bleary eyed, with messy hair and the hard lines of a frown etched everywhere.

  If she looked into her own eyes long enough, would she find answers or simply get lost? She flung the cabinet door open in frustration, not wanting to see the image. Three shelves greeted her. This was better. Boxes of bandages and bottles of vitamins, allergy medicine, and acid reducers didn’t care if she was indecisive.

  The cabinet would need to be cleared, and most of this could be thrown out. She grabbed the plastic trashcan from the floor, set it on the counter, and began to fill it. She pulled the items from their shelves one by one, liking the simplicity of the action.

  When she reached an empty prescription bottle, she paused. Nana never threw away memories, but an empty bottle was a different story. Bailey frowned when she saw the prescription name on the bottle, for the same painkiller Dr. Phillips gave her this morning. Where Bailey only had five pills—enough to hold her over until they could do more tests—this said it was for fifty. She never realized Nana suffered that kind of pain.

  Bailey’s curiosity and confusion grew when she saw the date on the bottle. Written and filled less than two weeks ago. She struggled to match the information to the time she’d spent with Nana, as she set aside the bottle and moved to the next. It was half full. A drug Bailey didn’t recognize. Or did she? The name tickled her thoughts, but she couldn’t grasp the association. Whatever it was, Nana had been taking it a lot longer. The bottle had three refills left, and the prescription was written ten months ago.

  She set the two orange bottles aside and continued her cabinet cleaning, letting the question roll around in the back of her head. It was a much better place for her focus than trying to figure out what to do about Jonathan.

  When the pieces clicked, she frowned. She knew the drug name because Margaret mentioned it one day, when Bailey was at the art gallery. It was a new Alzheimer’s drug Margaret’s father was on. But Nana didn’t have...

  Crap. More of the picture formed in Bailey’s head. The lapses in memory that started to show over the last few years. Nana asking where Jonathan was, then laughing it off later as a joke. Prodding Bailey about her marriage, then shaking it away as a lingering concern. There was more, too, but Bailey couldn’t wrap her brain around how the two bottles were connected. What were the odds Dr. Phillips would give her information during her visit tomorrow? Non
existent, most likely. It wouldn’t stop her from trying.

  She filed away the questions for later and opened the bathroom door. She came up short when she almost ran into Jonathan.

  “You all right?” He searched her face. “You look pale.”

  “Other than the concussion? I’m fine.” She stopped short of telling him what she found. The knowledge wouldn’t change anything, and she didn’t know what she’d say. I think Nana had Alzheimer's and never told anyone. It felt like there would be more to that conversation. The statement felt incomplete.

  The microwave beeped, and lights flickered on around the house. She was grateful for the distraction. A twisting in her gut asked if she should dig deeper into the pill question. She didn’t want to, but she needed the whole story.

  JONATHAN STARED AT the attic in frustration. With everything reorganized, it was easy to tell what types of things were where, but he wanted a specific item. He poked his head through the trap door. “Bailey.”

  “Yeah?” She’d grumbled about being mostly confined to the couch, but acquiesced when she figured out it gave her an excuse to make lists of the auction items they uncovered.

  Having the power back on made it easier to get through the outstanding work. Especially since an awkward silence hovered in the air every time he and Bailey were in the same room. He didn’t regret making his offer last night, but it changed things. Where did it leave them? Friends? Nothing?

  “Did you come across that old movie projector?” The note he found in the bottom of the safe sat in his wallet now, not offering more answers than when he first read it. He could decipher one riddle, though–what was on the film reel under the old photos.

  “To-sell stack. Probably on the bottom.”

  That gave him what he needed. Moments later, he unearthed the gray box and hauled it from the pile. Something else tumbled to the ground, and he frowned. A small, velvet jewelry box. He flipped the top, to expose a gold ring, inlaid with diamonds and engraved with delicate leaves. He recognized it. It was Nana’s mother’s wedding ring. An heirloom, passed down for generations. He was glad it wasn’t lost.