Sweet Sinful Nights - Lauren Blakely Page 0,109

It was coming from... she looked up and saw the valet shutting a town car door, then her husband walking over to her.

She parted her lips to speak, but he went first as another valet pulled up with her little red car.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

“But...” she said, sputtering.

“No ifs, ands, or buts about it. No wife of mine is driving five hours in the desert, then five hours back to catch a flight to be by my side. I’m going to be by her side,” he said, his eyes fixed on her, his gaze so strong, as he opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the car, the surprise of seeing him still working its way through her.

He walked behind the vehicle, tipping the valet, then got in on the driver’s side. After adjusting the seat and the mirrors, he pulled out of the Luxe’s portico.

“Did you just literally walk off the plane?” she asked, still trying to compute that he was there, and not flying across the country to New York. “Stand up and leave? Like in the movies or something?”

He nodded as he flipped on the blinker to turn right. “I did.”

“So we’ll take the red-eye together?”

He shook his head. He was grinning wickedly.

She scrunched her brow. “I don’t get it.”

He dropped a hand to her thigh and squeezed. “The red-eye was booked. No room on it. Turns out my wife got the last seat, and I’m having none of that. I missed the chance to be there for you in the past. This is important. You’re not going alone. I’m going with you. Every step of the way. I called Tanner and said I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

She brought her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by what he’d done. How he’d chosen her. How he’d walked away from work to stand by her. “What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He wasn’t too happy about it. I said I had to be here for you. Case closed.”

“But you’ll lose New York if you don’t go to the picnic tomorrow.”

He flashed her a million-dollar smile. “Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. And sometimes you decide there are more important things than a business deal. Like you. Always you.” He pointed to the radio. “Now, let’s crank up some tunes. You got a desert driving playlist? We need something to rock out to.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ be too ironic?”

“Irony is my middle name.”

She turned on Johnny Cash and held her husband’s hand the whole way through the desert as the sun rose high in the sky, blazing through the windshield, the road unfurling before them in a slate ribbon, her heart fuller than it had ever been.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The air conditioning hummed, blasting out sheets of cool air in the stark visiting room. Shannon rubbed her bare arms, wishing she’d brought a sweater. She didn’t remember it having been so chilly the last time she was there. Perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair at a table inside a small room, she waited.

She tried to conjure up an image of her mother, tried to remember how Dora had looked at Christmas, but the images that paraded before her eyes were older ones, so much older. Sewing Shannon’s leotard, the corner of her lips screwed up in concentration as she threaded. Placing a Band-Aid on Shannon’s knee when she’d skidded on her bike. Holding her hand as she walked her to school. So young, so vibrant, so blond. Just like Shannon. She’d had the same bright blond hair. Absently, Shannon raised her hand to her now-brown hair.

Someone opened the door.

Shannon rose. Nerves skittered across her flesh. The corrections officer appeared first, a tall, sturdy woman with dark hair in a braid. Holding the door open, the guard nodded and grunted a curt hello.

“Hello,” Shannon said, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Even after all these years, it still never felt normal to be conversing with a corrections officer.

Her mother entered, and Shannon did her best impression of a sealed-up box. Otherwise she’d fall to pieces. Keeping her chin up, her muscles steady, she managed a simple, “Hi, Mom.”

Her mother was a shadow of the woman she’d once been. Her bright blond hair was the color of dishwater, her cheeks were sunken, and her green eyes were a shade of sallow. Even so, she smiled. Her lips, with their cracked red lipstick, quivered as she held out

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