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

Chapter 30

Thirty

Jean-Michel

I can feel the exhaustion dragging at Tiff’s limbs, and I want to step in, want to take over.

But this is her family.

Her parents.

I’m not leaving her alone to deal with it, but I’m also not sweeping in and minimizing all the time and effort she’s put in, not minimizing the fact that she’s fully capable of handling this.

She’s amazing.

Smart. Confident. Able to navigate the phone calls and caregivers and nurses with a cool head and calm focus.

It’s impressive.

If she seemed to have the least bit of interest, I’d be doing my level best to bring her into Titan, to groom her to be another Marie.

She’d be fantastic.

But she has a different path.

So, all I can do is buckle in and help where I can.

“I don’t get it.”

I tear my gaze away from Tiff and her dad, from the gentle way Diego interacts with her, and look down at Tiff’s mom.

Roberta Hernandez is a bitch.

She’s ill and she’s old.

But she’s a bitch, and it’s ground into the lines of her face, built into the careful way Tiff tiptoes around her, into the wide berth her husband gives her.

As though one wrong move might set her off.

Had set her off.

Fuck, just remembering sprinting into the kitchen and seeing her mother with hands on her…

I wanted to commit murder.

Luckily, I have plenty of experience with pushing down those urges, with clinging tightly to my control, no matter how filled with rage I am.

“You don’t get what?” I ask quietly.

Her gaze is trained on Tiff. “What’s so special about her?”

Another wave of rage, but I don’t allow it to escape.

Instead, I shake my head, say, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Deep brown eyes, so much like Tiff’s come to mine. They’re completely lucid—unlike when I’d walked into that scene in the kitchen, unlike during the long minutes it took to calm her when I’d gone to check on her afterward—and because of that, I don’t mince words.

“That you can’t see the treasure you helped to create.”

Those eyes flare. Not with pride, but with anger, and I shake my head at Tiff’s mom.

“It’s sad,” I mutter. “Pathetic really, that you’ve decided to hate something so beautiful.”

“You’re just like him,” she spits, glaring over at Tiff and Diego.

I’ve spent the last few hours in this house, seen the way father and daughter interact. Diego loves his daughter and makes no bones about it. Same as I know Roberta’s anger at Tiff isn’t a new behavior. Maybe heightened by the sickness in her brain, the dementia that’s making her lose time and space and memories.

But not new.

“Seems to me,” I say, “that being like him isn’t all that bad.”

She sniffs.

I crouch again, hold her eyes. “I need you to know that if you put your hands on her again, if you so much as make her cry again, you’ll be dealing with me.”

And a fucking home with a caregiver who’s like Nurse Ratched.

Another sniff, but I see the understanding in her eyes, so I straighten and return my focus to Tiff, who’s now speaking to Haley, the woman in charge of the home care company Tiff’s employed. I like Haley—she’s both no-nonsense and compassionate—and as I move by Diego and the nurse who’s come in to help him out of his chair so he can use the bathroom and get ready for bed, I hear the tail end of her and Tiff’s conversation.

“…I’ll figure out a way to get you the payment for the difference by the end of the week,” Tiff is saying. “Will that work for you?”

Haley sighs. “I know that you’ve been working really hard to make this work, but if it’s already a struggle, I’m worried we need to think about contingencies. Their care—especially your mother’s as the dementia gets worse—is going to get more expensive. We have to take precautions with violent patients?—”

“She’s not exactly violent,” Tiff murmurs. “She’s just an angry woman and?—”

Haley settles her hand on Tiff’s arm. “I’d accept that a little more easily if you didn’t have scratches on your face,” she says gently.

Tiff closes her eyes, defeat sliding through her expression.

And I’ve had enough of standing back and letting Tiff handle this.

I move to her side, loop my arm around her waist, and turn to Haley. “If money were no object, what type of care would you implement here?”

Tiff goes stiff as a board beside me.

Haley’s eyes go wide, but my instincts are rewarded because I don’t see dollar signs flashing in the hazel depths. Instead, I see consideration. Thoughtfulness. “Honestly, for the level of care they need, it might be cheaper to move them to a facility—Tiff wouldn’t have to worry about the housework and meals. She could just focus on keeping them healthy and safe. But that’s not what Roberta and Diego—and Tiff—want, so short of Tiff moving back in here to alleviate some of the pressure, I’d suggest twenty-four hour nursing paired with memory care services for Roberta. Occupational therapy, some retrofitting of the house to make both of their daily activities easier, and someone to take care of the day-to-day tasks that Tiff has been handling—grocery shopping, mowing the lawn, making sure the house is running efficiently.”

Tiff opens her mouth. “I?—”

I cut her off. I know it’s a bit of a dick move but I do it anyway.

“All of that makes sense,” I tell Haley, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a business card. “Let’s do it.”

Tiff goes even stiffer.

“This is the direct line for my assistant,” I say, passing her the card before Tiff can protest. “She’ll help you set up monthly invoicing and payments. I let her know to expect your call.”

Haley’s eyes are wide as she glances between Tiff and me.

Then, proving my instincts are right (and she’s also very smart and capable, along with no-nonsense and compassionate), she nods, pockets the card, and says, “I’ll start making some calls to get everything set up.”

She slips away, phone lifting to her ear.

“What else do you need to do here tonight?” I ask Tiff softly.

“I need to stay until they’re in bed.” She glances up at me and her expression is filled with rage. “You can go.”

“Buttercup.”

Hot brown eyes. A lush mouth pressed flat. “You should go,” she hisses.

“Baby—”

“You’ve overstepped,” she snaps. “Big time.”

“I just wanted?—”

“They’re my parents.” Her rage is intense and quiet, but obvious. So, knowing that her mother is likely soaking up every minute of her being upset, I take her arm and draw her into the kitchen.

“I know they’re your parents, buttercup,” I say quietly.

“ I take care of them.” She slaps a hand against her chest, just above her heart. “I do it.”

“Yeah, you’ve been doing it, baby.” I step closer, trapping her hand between us, capturing her other when she reaches up and tries to push me away. “You’ve been dealing with the shit life dishes out on your own for far too long.”

“I—”

I cup her jaw. “ Stop .”

“No, Jean-Mi?—”

Christ, even when she’s pissed, she still uses that name for me.

I fucking love it.

I could fucking love her.

Do love her.

“—they’re my responsibility and?—”

“Stop, baby.”

She opens her mouth.

But I beat her to the punch, tilt her head up, and kiss her, cutting off her protests.

I kiss her until the stiffness leaves her frame.

I kiss her until her hand isn’t pushing against me.

I kiss her until her body has melted against mine.

Only then do I lift my head and hold her gaze, willing her to read the truth in my eyes.

“You’re not alone anymore.”