Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,55

welcome with Jeannette.

“Okay.” The tiny smile she gave him was more than sufficient reward for capitulating. He refocused on Jeannette. “I really will owe you after this.”

“No. I’ll enjoy it as much as she will.”

Toby tugged on the leash, obviously eager to eat his own dinner.

“I have to feed the pup. Can I drop Molly off around eight?”

“That’ll be fine. Thanks for dinner.”

“My pleasure.” He took his niece’s hand. “Time to head home, sweetie.”

“I wish we didn’t have to go.”

That made two of them.

“You’ll be back tomorrow.” Toby strained against the leash again as Logan spoke to Jeannette. “See you soon.”

“Very.” Her lips curved up a hair. “Have a nice evening.”

He set off with his little entourage, down the hedge on Jeannette’s side.

As he rounded the corner at the end, toward his own driveway, he looked back.

She was standing where he’d left her, backlit by the golden sun that left her face in shadows—and unreadable.

Who knew what she was thinking?

But he did know one thing.

His evening would be much nicer if it included her.

Suggesting there could be serious potential ahead with his reclusive neighbor if she ever ventured out from behind the hedge around her property—and the walls around her heart.

16

“’Ami!” Thomma jolted to a stop in the kitchen doorway. “You’re not supposed to be putting weight on your foot.”

“I always fix your breakfast.”

“I don’t expect you to cook with a sprained ankle—or any day at five forty-five in the morning for that matter. I told you that when I started my job. Yogurt and bread will do today.”

“No they won’t. Breakfast is an important meal.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

“You will eat a meal if I prepare it.”

Yes, he would—especially if she’d gone to all this effort despite her injured ankle.

As she well knew.

“I wish you wouldn’t feel like you have to prepare food for me.” He huffed out a breath. “I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”

She froze for an instant, the spatula in her hand suspended above the fried egg in the pan on the stove. “I know that.” A quiver rippled through her words, and she gripped the edge of the counter. Flipped the egg.

Thomma frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

But as she hobbled to the cabinet in the small kitchen to retrieve a plate, the shimmer in her eyes said otherwise.

His pulse stumbled.

“’Ami.” He closed the distance between them. “What’s going on? Does your ankle hurt? Do you want a painkiller?”

She angled away from him. “I’ll be done here in a few minutes. Once I sit, it won’t hurt.”

“Why don’t you sit now? I can finish up the breakfast.” He pulled out a chair.

“No. I have prepared breakfast for my family while feeling much worse than this. I’ll put my foot up after you’re gone.”

“But I can take over.”

“I know. You are a grown man, as you said. You don’t need me anymore.” She turned toward him, her back to the window, the sky outside not yet lightened by the sun. “But this is my life, Thomma. I cook and clean and do the laundry and keep the household running and love my family.” A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye, and she swiped it away. “The truth is, I need you more than you need me.”

Her admission was like a sucker punch to the gut.

Despite the strong front she presented to the world, his mother too had doubts and insecurities. The life she’d known had also vanished, and like him, she was searching for meaning in this new land.

Why had he never realized that?

Because you’ve been selfish, and you’ve only paid attention to your own problems.

The rebuke from his conscience was harsh—but true.

He had to do better for this woman who’d been the glue in their family as far back as he could remember.

“You’re wrong, ’Ami.” He crossed to her and took the worn hands that had cared for him with such tenderness when he was a child. That were still caring for him—and his daughter. “I do need you. So does Elisa.”

“For now, maybe.”

“For always.”

She searched his face, straightened her shoulders, and tugged her hands free, her typical strong façade slipping back into place. “Your egg will burn. Sit. The meal is ready.”

He moved to the table, filled with as many of the breakfast foods from home as she could make from the ingredients she’d found at the local market. Like it had been in the old days, before terror and persecution and tragedy had driven