hear a deep, booming voice.
I turn toward the house. Ridge shrugs on his coat as he walks down the front steps.
“No, not exactly,” I answer, knowing he’s referring to the crates in the shed where my old Ford is also parked. “I’m heading into town.”
“What for?” he asks, zipping his leather coat while catching up to me.
“I’m not sure yet.” I reach for the handle on the shed door. “Anything the pharmacist suggests.”
“Shit. Nelson’s doing that bad?”
A deflated sigh hisses out of me. There’s no use in sugarcoating the obvious.
“He had a really rough night. He’s sleeping now, so I need to hurry.”
“I’ll drive you. We’ll get there and back faster with my ride. I’ll go tell Tobin to keep an eye on Nelson until we get back.”
“No, that’s sweet, but not necessary,” I say. “But if you could check on Dad...that’d be good.”
He folds his arms and rakes a look up my body. All sinful, demanding blue-eyed beast-man today, apparently.
“Driving you is necessary,” he says, already turning back to the house. “The roads are less than pristine around here until they’ve had a few good passes. Yesterday was just the start of the cleanup. Last thing you want to do is risk getting stuck while you’re on a medicine run.”
I hate how he’s right.
The thought occurred to me, but now I don’t have a choice. Dad needs some relief and I have to find it.
Letting Ridge give me a lift would be the smartest choice. I just hate becoming even more indebted to this man, who’s wrestling with his own demons aplenty if anything in those articles is true.
A few seconds later, one of the four garage doors on the house opens, making the decision for me. I hear the familiar growl of his truck.
When life gives you lemons...sometimes you just drink that damn lemonade with the biggest forced smile.
Minutes later, we’re in the truck and heading into town.
Despite the plows out yesterday, more snow drifted over in places with the overnight winds, just like Ridge suggested.
Instead of pointing it out, he asks about Dad, how long he’s been sick, and assures me that Tobin will be with him the whole time we’re gone.
I explain that it came on suddenly around December. We both thought it was a cold at first, and it’d go away in a week or two, but it lingered several months until the cough became almost crippling.
I mention the recent ER trip where he was diagnosed with a viral infection they couldn’t give him much for, not without a follow-up, and the suspected congestive heart failure.
I tell him I want to talk to the pharmacist about what might really help Dad, the best over-the-counter medication money can buy.
“While you’re doing that, I’ll hit the grocery store,” Ridge says, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Tobin made some suggestions. He needs more stuff for another round of chicken soup. Everything we grabbed the other day wasn’t enough to keep it coming.”
My heart sinks.
Again, his kindness crushes my soul, but we really, really can’t be staying here much longer.
“Thank you,” I say, fully meaning it.
I sincerely appreciate what he’s doing for us. Even though Dad is first and foremost on my mind, I can’t help but think about all the things I’d read about Ridge last night.
Troubled child actor who’s had multiple meltdowns over the years seems so flipping hard to believe.
That’s not who’s in the driver’s seat right now, eyes fixed sternly on the road, treating this supply run like it’s some kind of life-or-death mission.
Really, the man driving me into town doesn’t seem like an award-winning actor at all—just a normal guy in his truck.
A nice guy with searing good looks and shredded abs that were definitely too nice on the scale of ohhh to ahhh when I saw him with his shirt off.
Okay, so I’m probably talking out of my butt.
I’ve never known any actors. I’ve never done interviews. I’ve never so much as performed in a high school musical.
But Ridge Barnet seems shockingly down-to-earth.
Too genuine to ever walk out on a huge charity event for no good reason like that last article suggested. Certainly not the kinda man who’d snap over his mom’s death—more crass speculation by whoever threw together that hack piece.
I also wonder...what actually happened to Judy Barnet?
There wasn’t a chance to dive deep into the suicide case.
I just know, more often than not, real investigative journalism is a dying art.
Now things get posted online more for eyes and ad revenue