Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine

Tiff

I knew that my mom was pissed about Jean-Michel’s interference even before I walked through the door.

I knew when I overheard his half of the conversation, even though he was trying to be quiet.

I knew when her texts poured in this morning, even though I replied to the first one to tell her I would be over later.

I knew when I parked at the curb and asked Jean-Michel to give me a minute.

But the sheer volume of her anger…I wasn’t prepared.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she snaps the moment I unlock the door and step inside.

I don’t immediately answer because my gaze is swinging around the house, my mouth falling open. It’s been all of three days since I’ve been here and…

It looks like a fucking bomb went off.

Jesus Christ.

I step into the kitchen and bite back a gasp. Because it worse here. There are cups and plates everywhere . Dried food stuck to them, chunks of other food sprinkled liberally on the counter and floor. I inhale and get a hint of rotten milk and this time I do gasp.

Because the fridge door is open.

Wide open.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper, rushing forward, stomach sinking when I realize it’s not just the fridge.

The freezer is open too, the food inside a combination of room temperature and melting.

I stick my hand in, find that the fridge isn’t at temperature either, and my eyes well up with tears.

I just did their weekly shop.

And Dad’s medication, the one I paid an arm and leg for, needs to be refrigerated.

I grind my teeth together, blink back my tears, and send a text to the woman in charge of the rotating roster of nurses and caregivers, wondering how the fuck this happened.

And get a response a moment later.

HALEY: Your mother refused to let the morning nurse in. She was going to attempt again at the end of her route.

I close my eyes, strive for patience.

TIFF: Thanks, Haley. I’m here and will be here, so please apologize and tell her I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.

She acknowledges that, and I pocket my phone, surveying the mess and trying to figure out where to start…and how to make sure Jean-Michel doesn’t see this disaster. First things first, I scoop up the source of the rotten milk—a carton that’s been opened and left to dribble out on the floor.

The house is warm, because my parents always run cold, and it’s curdled.

I gag slightly as I dump it in the sink, reach for the paper towels. “God, Mom, what were you thinking?”

“You didn’t come.”

I close my eyes, exhale quietly, strive for patience. “The nurses were here yesterday. They’re here every day .” I start scrubbing the floor.

“I don’t like them.”

If only this was the dementia talking and not my mom—unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell the two apart nowadays.

“Regardless,” I say carefully. “They could have made you something to eat if you just let them in. And I’m here as often as I can be?—”

“Except when you’re with that man.”

“Jesus, Mom,” I grit out, Jean-Mi’s words from this morning bolstering me. “I’m allowed to have a life.”

“I gave up mine to take care of you!”

Fuck.

I shove the soiled paper towels in the trash, pick up a plate, dump it in the sink. “Let me clean up,” I say, trying to stay calm. “And then I’ll make you something to eat.”

She goes quiet for a second, and I think I’ve suitably distracted her.

I’m wrong.

I only tackle bringing two more plates to the sink before she comes close and asks, tone shrill, “Who was that man? And why was he answering your phone in the middle of the night?”

Calm.

“I’m seeing him, Mom.”

There’s a long moment of quiet and I glance at her, see the ugly expression on her face.

Dammit.

“You little whore,” she hisses.

“Mom, I’m an adult,” I say on a sigh. “It’s natural that I date.”

They’re reasonable words, but I can tell they’re not going to penetrate. Because I’ve lost her.

“You little whore!” she shouts, reaching for me. “You dumb fucking whore!”

I slide away, reaching over and dumping more plates in the sink.

Part of this is the early stages of dementia—being angry, her emotions from zero to a hundred in a heartbeat—or at least that’s what her doctor says.

Part of this is the way she’s always been.

What I’ve always heard.

“Fucking whore! Fucking ungrateful whore!”

I ignore her words as she continues ranting, keeping my distance as I grab the trash can, intending to empty the spoiled food from the fridge and freezer.

How the hell I’ll afford to fill them again, I don’t know.

But I’ll figure it out.

I always do.

Only, I’m just bending to throw out a leaking package of chicken breasts that smells like death when the blow comes.

“Ow!” I gasp, pain exploding over the back of my head. I drop the package and straighten, barely avoiding the next blow. “What the hell, Mom?”

“You fucking whore! Fucking bitch! Fucking slut!”

I hear my dad shout, asking if I’m okay. He’s too weak to walk without help and I want to reassure him, so he doesn’t try to do something stupid—like try to come help me—but I don’t get the chance.

Because she’s coming at me again, grabbing my hair and yanking roughly, sending searing pain through my scalp.

I spin around, reaching back, trying to free myself from her grip…

And that’s the moment Jean-Michel bursts through the door.

The look of rage on his face sends icy cold through me.

“Don’t hurt?—”

I don’t get the chance to finish the statement because then he’s in front of us.

Between us.

One second, my hair is being yanked. The next, the pressure and pain is gone and his arm is around my middle, drawing me behind him.

I expect to see my mom on the floor, broken and bloody or worse.

I expect to see her gasping for breath, like Dave had when Jean-Mi confronted him a few days back.

Instead, Jean-Michel’s holding both of her shoulders, crouching to meet her eyes. His voice deadly serious and yet, deadly calm when he says, “You don’t touch her like that. You don’t talk to her like that. Not when I’m here. Not when I’m not.”

Bracing for my mother’s response to that, I open my mouth.

But I don’t get there.

Because she bursts into tears, yanks out of Jean-Michel’s hold, and runs from the room.

I close my eyes for a moment.

Then exhale and open them.

He’s right in front of me—exactly like I knew he would be.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod even though adrenaline is rippling through me and my knees are weak and I just want to curl up in the corner and pretend this isn’t my life. “She’s not well and…” I clear my throat, blink the tears away. “The dementia makes her even meaner than normal.”

“I’m seeing that.”

“I…she doesn’t normally get physical.”

That sends something flaring through his eyes, probably the normally revealing too much. Like the fact that she has been physical before. I open my mouth to say something to settle him—though I have no clue what.

This is pretty much my worst nightmare, and this brilliant, wonderful man has witnessed it.

“I’m glad that’s the case, buttercup.”

My eyes shoot up at the gentle words, but he doesn’t give me a chance to put distance between us, just comes close, one arm wrapping around me, the other lifting, gently touching my cheek, running through my hair. “You have a couple of scratches,” he murmurs, “but I don’t think they’ll bruise.”

I inhale sharply.

“Does your scalp hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked, baby.”

I close my eyes. Breath. Then nod. “It hurts. But it’ll be fine in a bit.”

He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, but I can’t sit in that soft touch, not when it makes me want to collapse in his hold and allow the tears to come.

“I need to check in with my dad,” I tell him. “And then I need to make sure my mom is okay too.” I sigh. “Then I need to clean this disaster up while I wait for their caregiver. Do you want me to call you a Lyft?”

His brows drag together. “Why would you want to call me a car?”

“Because we barely know each other, honey. And even though the limited knowledge I have of you is wonderful and filled with all sorts of things I like, we haven’t graduated to cleaning up spoiled food in my parents’ kitchen.”

I see it before I hear it.

The thread of anger in his eyes.

“Excuse me?” he says, stepping closer, gripping my arms.

Not tightly.

But firmly enough so I can’t escape.

“This isn’t your problem to solve,” I say quietly.

“And you standing at my side last night with Angela wasn’t your nightmare to step into.”

“It was nothing,” I say. “Literally just standing at your side. This is…”

Softness wars with annoyance. “What’d I say, buttercup?”

I frown. “About what?”

“You’re smart. Sweet. Kind. Funny. Beautiful.” His eyes hold mine. “You honestly think I found all of that and I’m not going to do everything to keep it?”

I suck in a breath.

“Yes, the house is a mess neither of us created. No, I didn’t like what I walked into and I’m sure as shit not going to allow that to happen again.” He touches my cheek. “But I’m not a dumb man, baby. I know a good thing when I’ve found it. And I know that I’m not going to leave you to deal with this shit alone.” He brushes his lips over mine. “Not a fucking chance in hell.”

My dad yells from down the hall, asking again if I’m okay.

Jean-Michel releases me then gives me nudges toward the hall.

“Go and talk to him,” he orders. “I’ll check on your mom.”

More orders.

But I don’t bring that up. Not right now.

I know he hears the unspoken thought, though.

Because when I pause in the hall and glance back at him, he’s smiling at me.

And…I smile back.

Somehow, despite all of this, I smile back.