The Wrong Mr. Darcy - Evelyn Lozada Page 0,73

right thing. Let him come forward. It’s what’s best for everybody.”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you give him a few days, at least?” Derek pleaded, hating himself for it. “Let me talk to him.”

They both backed down, quietly drank their coffee. The space between them felt gray and dirty and infinite. He wanted to pick her up and carry her back to the bedroom, to make her forget everything she’d heard. Her smell and her touch could take him away, too, make him forget everything. Derek started to stretch out his hand to her, to bridge the space, but she pushed back from the table, unaware or uninterested.

“I promise, Derek, I won’t do anything rash, or without talking to you.” Standing, she put down her coffee cup. “First things first. I’m going to head over to the hospital and check on Naomi. Do you want to come with me?”

“No, O’Donnell’s been trying to get ahold of me. He wants me to go over to his house to talk to him. I better figure out what is up with him.”

“But we’re okay, right?”

“Everything’s fine, Hara. You’re just doing what you think you need to do. So am I.” But I can’t say I trust you. I don’t trust anybody.

* * *

Hara pulled her hood up and sprinted to the Uber waiting for her on the corner, the rain only a light drizzle and bearable without the howling winds from last night. Her suitcase banged against her leg; she’d brought it and her satchel, not sure where she was going to end up that night.

Was she going to fly home? Get a hotel? Sneak back into Derek’s bed?

Clicking on her seat belt, she stared at her hands, disoriented. Unsure. A kaleidoscope of images cascaded through her mind as the Boston streets, covered in storm debris and standing puddles, flashed in front of her eyes. Her body was heading toward the hospital but her mind was jumping around through space and time, from being on top of Derek, filled with his heat and desire, to standing outside O’Donnell’s kitchen as the old bastard talked about her father, her insides empty and cold.

How was this fair? Life had taken a major turn for the mind-blowing great, but there always had to be a freaking complication.

She could ignore the story. Hara could pretend she didn’t know anything and see where this thing with Derek might go. She could leave for home on a good note and maybe see him again, maybe not, but they’d part on decent, if not affectionate, terms. Friends with possible benefits.

Maintain a relationship that wasn’t a relationship and had no guarantee or likeliness of being a relationship.

Or, Hara could be a journalist and report what she knew. It wouldn’t hurt to wait a few days, not just because she hoped Charles would do the right thing, but also because she needed time to corroborate and research before she committed anything to print. She couldn’t just write something this big based on an overhead conversation and hearsay. She had to research the hell out of this before she made any decisions.

And what about Derek? She’d think about that later.

The automatic doors of Massachusetts General Hospital rolled open with a whoosh of air, blowing her hair across her face and filling her nostrils with the tingle of astringent. This time, she noticed the fall decorations, the wreaths and garlands of twigs and orange and green leaves hung with gold ribbon. She imagined they were there to soften the impact of standing in a building filled with tragedy and pain. The decorations were actually very pretty.

She felt bad that Naomi lay in a bed upstairs, suffering with fear over the future, while Charles was probably at some spa, getting a massage and a happy ending.

Whoa there, Hara Isari. Take a step back. She was just pissed because she might have been wrong about him. She needed to keep an open mind, to find out what was true or not, and why he’d done the things he’d done. Hara had to remove herself from the story. That’s what good journalists did.

Hara stopped at the information desk, festooned with more fall foliage and manned by two old women who had withered down to the same height and had their perms done by the same beautician.

“Hi, can you please tell me what room Naomi … Naomi. Oh, geez. I forget her last name.”

“I won’t bother asking if you’re family, then,” said one of the women, not unkindly. “I can’t