13. Blake
13
BLAKE
We return to Colorado Springs without incident. As we pull into her driveway, Georgia-May thanks me, holding back from any physical contact. Her gratitude is genuine, but so is the heaviness of the day’s events. I find it nearly unbearable. Not being right next to her during the first leg of her journey has left a mark on me.
“Georgia-May, may I ask for a favor?” I call out before she can walk away.
She halts her step. “Sure.”
“I hate to impose, but could I use your sister’s garage for this rental? I’d rather it not be visible on the street.”
“I guess an Avis sticker will stand out around here,” she quips. “I’ll move Anne’s car, and you can use the space. Sometimes, she parks on the street anyway, so it’s no issue.”
“Thank her for me, will you?”
“You can say it yourself,” she replies, nodding toward the house where Anne is now stepping out, her gaze keenly observing my every move.
After I park the car in the garage, I step into the house. Anne greets me with a sharp, assessing gaze. She stands firmly, ushering me into the living room, cleverly allowing Georgia-May to slip into the back without facing me.
“You must be Simon Blake,” Anne says, her tone cordial yet infused with a seriousness that demands attention.
“I am. And you must be Anne.”
“So, you’re sticking around, huh?” Her voice remains pleasant, but there’s an unmistakable protective edge, a clear signal that she guards the threshold of her sister’s safety.
“Yes, for now. It’s just until we’re sure everything’s safe,” I reply, striving to sound as unobtrusive as possible.
Anne narrows her eyes slightly, leaning against the couch with one hand for support. “So, you’re going to expose Bertram and bring my sister’s stalkers to justice?”
“Whatever it takes, Anne,” I reply, my voice steady despite the underlying tension.
“She hid it well from me last night,” she says, annoyance evident. “I guess she wanted to protect me from her ordeal and you from my wrath.”
Ordinarily, my work involves observing subjects from a distance, but engaging directly with two formidable sisters is quite the change of pace. “It won’t happen again,” I assure her.
“My sister and niece have gone through a lot. I really hope this will be brief.”
“I’m here to help, not to cause more stress. Believe me, I want this to be over as much as you do, and the last thing I intend is to intrude on your lives.”
She studies me for a moment, her expression inscrutable. “All right, but just remember, you’re here because they need protection, nothing more,” she states, her tone firm yet not without kindness.
I’m fully aware of the boundaries she’s setting. Evidently, Georgia-May had filled her in on my disastrous attempt to dismiss our kiss during our flight into Denver. “Understood. The O’Connor sisterhood—something I wouldn’t dare cross,” I add, acknowledging the fierce loyalty that binds these sisters together.
Anne relaxes slightly. “Good. Just remember that.” Before turning to leave, she adds, “I’m making dinner. Feel free to grab something to drink. Wine’s in the cupboard, beer’s in the fridge. Glasses are on the top shelf.” She gestures dismissively toward the kitchen as if granting me temporary access to their inner sanctum.
I select a bottle of red. “Would you like some, Anne?”
She offers a subtle smile. “Sure, why not.”
Pouring two glasses, I extend one to her. “Are you sure I can’t help with anything?”
She now appears considerably more at ease. “Actually, why don’t you relax in the living room?”
Despite her lifting mood, I sense she still prefers solitude. I make myself scarce and pad to the living room.
Georgia-May steps in with Coco, and the atmosphere shifts palpably with their entrance. Inside, a surge of unfamiliar joy floods through me. Among the three, Coco is the only one likely to offer me carefree attention. Her gaze meets mine with that pure, innocent curiosity only a child can muster. At this moment, I realize she’s the one who will break my heart over and over—in a different way than her mother and aunt might.
Coco’s mouth forms a perfect ‘O,’ like she’s trying to figure out why this unknown man is here. Her sleepy-then-alert expression, coupled with her earnest gaze, disarms me more effectively than any security clearance could.
“Hello, little one,” I greet her in the sweetest tone I can muster.
Then, her small voice cuts straight through me, saying a word I never expected to hear in my lifetime. I’m certain I heard it right— daddy —because Georgia-May blushes, almost turning her daughter around.
“That’s Blake.” Georgia-May pivots as she recovers from the moment that stunned us both. “Say hi, Blake.”
Still reeling from the girl’s innocent mistake, I reluctantly drain the honeyed warmth pooling in my chest. I give her a small wave.
Coco hides her face in her mother’s shoulder for a moment before peeking out again, her eyes wide but now tinged with a shy smile. I don’t believe Georgia-May is the type to exploit her daughter’s charm to win a man’s affections, to sway my feelings about us, but if she tried, by God, she would have succeeded.
“Black,” the little girl murmurs.
Georgia-May laughs, calmly correcting her daughter. But honestly, the little girl has unwittingly given me a fitting nickname. I’m far from innocent inside. Yet, in the presence of this mother and daughter, perhaps something within me glimpses a sliver of light.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask, catching her tiny wave with my fingertips. She’s so delicate, so pure.
“Coco,” she announces.
“Hi, Coco,” I whisper back, feeling pulses inside as if my heart is smiling. Turning to Georgia-May, I realize my earlier judgment was off. It isn’t just Coco who’s welcoming me with such affection. Her mother’s demeanor has transformed as well. I’ve never seen Georgia-May’s face so light, so open.
“How old is she?” I’ve already researched Coco, but the question escapes anyway—partly because it’s a natural thing to ask and partly because I don’t want to be mistaken.
“Well, she’ll be twenty months old next week,” Georgia-May replies. “Right?” She gives her daughter a little tickle, then realizes that her attention is fixed on me, unyielding. Then, with a subtle shift, Coco turns toward her mother, her eyes seeking silent consent for what she wishes next. Understanding the unspoken request, Georgia-May prepares Coco, easing her into position. “Would you hold her, please?”
My stance stiffens. Coco looks so delicate with the stitches tracing her scalp. I’ve never held such a young child before, and the fear of doing something wrong is overwhelming.
Georgia-May catches the hesitation in my eyes. “Please,” she implores. “I need to take a shower.”
“Love you,” the baby mumbles to me. Or at least I think that’s what she tried to say.
“Did she just say—” I start to ask, but my question trails off.
Georgia-May smiles at Coco, clearly surprised herself. “You like him, huh? You stay with Blake while I take my shower, okay?” she says, passing her to me.
My instinct to refuse melts away seeing the little girl’s bright eyes, eager to reach me as if I’m her new best friend. As Coco settles into my lap, she struggles to find her balance, her legs unresponsive.
“The removal of her tumor has affected her legs’ mobility,” Georgia-May explains.
That disclosure grips me. This girl in my arms is far too young to face such trials. Almost reflexively, I lean down and press a heartfelt kiss on her forehead.
Georgia-May purrs in response. “She’s going to have her first therapy session tomorrow. The doctors are adamant she’ll walk again.”
“You’re strong, aren’t you?” I murmur to the little girl. Just like your mother.
Georgia-May walks away, sending her daughter a reassuring smile. Meanwhile, Coco makes a valiant attempt to stand but finds herself faltering. Her frustration mounts. I can’t imagine what I would do if I was in her shoes. The simple joys once within her grasp now seem like mountains.
“Here, here.” I slide my hands gently under her armpits to support her. Her eyes sparkle with delight as she finds herself suspended over my lap, suddenly towering above her usual height.
Coco meets my gaze, then points at the floor. “Walk.”
“Not now, okay? But the doctors will help you walk again,” I affirm, convinced she understands me.
She relaxes into me, and I pull her back against my chest. “I’ve got ya,” I murmur near her ear. As she settles into the comfort of my arms, forming a makeshift cushion and safety net, she seems content. Her eyes light up with curiosity as she reaches up to explore my beard.
“Yeah, it’s grownup stuff,” I comment lightly.
As she keeps stretching, her sleeve slides up, revealing the prick marks from numerous IVs and injections. My body hurts, yet she remains upbeat, laughing, apparently savoring even the littlest joy, her tiny fingers tangling in the coarse hair. Then, her small hand drops to the top of mine, delicate and trusting.
“I love you too, baby,” I whisper.
When dinner is ready, Georgia-May reappears in a simple dress that casts her in an endearingly domestic light, igniting a wish for her to be mine. If only things were as simple as two people being in love with no concerns in the world.
We gather at the table, Anne sitting right next to me as Georgia-May settles Coco into her highchair. Anne has prepared a delicious clam linguine. The meal starts with Georgia-May feeding Coco first, the scene a glimpse of family life I never knew.
Georgia-May watches me twirl the pasta around my fork, her smile barely noticeable.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re left-handed?”
I almost need to double-check that I’m holding the fork in my right hand, just like her and Anne.
“I mean, the direction you’re spinning the pasta,” Georgia-May says, nibbling her lower lip to stifle a smile.
“Aha!” I exclaim, surprised by her keen observation. “Yes, I’m a proud leftie.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, clearly turning this over in her mind. I can’t help but wonder what kind of left-handed conspiracy she’s cooking up in there.
“So, Blake,” Anne says, her voice casual as she butters her bread, “your bosses are okay with you staying here, dealing with these so-called complications?”
Indeed, the complications run deep. I respond, “They’re on board. They want Georgia-May and Coco safe as much as I do.”
Anne probes further, “And what makes you qualified to handle these ‘complications?’”
“Anne…” Georgia-May interjects tentatively, trying to curb the interrogation, but Anne presses on.
“I’ve been a private investigator for quite some time,” I continue, meeting Anne’s gaze squarely. “Before that, I was in law enforcement. I’ve faced a variety of challenges.”
“Law enforcement?” Georgia-May exclaims, a note of surprise in her voice. “I didn’t know that.”
“I was a trooper in my home state of Alaska, then became a detective.”
Georgia-May’s eyes sparkle with intrigue. She tells Coco, “You hear that, Co? Blake is from Alaska. Do you remember what we learned about Alaska?” Slowly, with a touch of whimsy, she curves her fingers atop her head, mimicking the silhouette of bear ears.
“Bear!” Coco interjects, her arms soaring into the air like little wings.
A chuckle escapes me as Coco’s delight in bears from a faraway land washes over me. “Yeah, there are brown bears, polar bears, and black bears in Alaska,” I say, my tone morphing into that of a storyteller, weaving a tone of enchantment to ignite her wonder.
“Black!” she declares with the same enthusiasm.
Her sheer delight in the wildlife from the landscapes of my youth brings a lighter air to the room, momentarily distracting me from the tense undercurrents at the table.
But Anne isn’t letting up. As her sister continues helping Coco eat, she probes, “So, what made you move to California?”
Talk about the interrogator becoming the interrogated!
“Anne, be gentle with him,” Georgia-May chimes in, attempting to sway her sister’s approach, though a hint of amusement dances in her eyes.
“Work,” I respond succinctly, careful to keep the more complex layers of my past with Flo well hidden, far from Anne’s prying curiosity. “But to be honest, I do miss the slow beat of my hometown.”
“Where in Alaska?” Georgia-May inquires.
“Seward, a city south of Anchorage.”
Anne’s gaze settles, though her suspicion lingers. “Is your family still there, Blake?”
A sharp pang hits me at her question. With a serious expression, I respond, “No. The Hartleys are my only family.” My thoughts drift momentarily to Georgia-May and Coco, the family I yearn to call my own. “Trust me, Anne, I’ll do everything in my power to protect your sister and niece and to neutralize those who wish them harm. There will be no distractions.”
Anne regards me intently for a long moment. “All right, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
I manage a grin. “Fair enough.”
After dinner, Anne insists on handling the dishes alone, while Georgia-May retires to her room with Coco. I find myself lingering in the living room, nursing a cup of green tea Anne had prepared. The quiet of the evening wraps around the house, broken only by the occasional clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Soon, Georgia-May joins her sister.
“She’s asleep?” Anne’s voice is filled with the warm concern of an aunt.
“Yeah. She’s been so good today,” Georgia-May responds.
Anne casts a meaningful glance in my direction, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, my presence had a calming effect on Coco today. Then, turning back to her sister, she suggests, “I’ll grab the stuff for Blake.”
“No. You go to bed. You’ve got an early start tomorrow,” Georgia-May insists, her voice firm yet caring.
“Okay. I’ll be back before Coco’s appointment,” Anne concedes, and with a quiet goodnight, she disappears into her room.
Moments later, Georgia-May comes to me with an armful of sheets, pillows, and blankets. “Let me make the couch,” she offers, gesturing for me to sit up so she can arrange the bedding.
“I’ll do it,” I insist. “Seriously.”
She hands me the stack of linens and watches as I spread the sheet over the cushions. Breaking the silence, she says, “Um, Anne’s taking me to the hospital tomorrow. The appointment’s at eleven.”
“I’ll drive you and Coco there,” I declare, determined not to let the anxiety of this afternoon’s solo trip to Denver repeat itself. With Coco in the mix, my protective instincts are on high alert. I need to be right there, within arm’s reach.
“If you’re sure,” she replies, her voice tinged with relief.
Then, I notice her activating the house alarm. “It looks like you take security seriously,” I quip.
“I don’t have a Poppy, though.” A slight smile touches her lips as she reminds me of my robotic dog left at home.
I chuckle, smoothing the final crease on the makeshift bed. “Well, as you can see, Poppy never minds me leaving her home alone for days on end without notice.”
“Point taken,” she says with a smooth laugh. “Good night, Blake.”
I’m not ready to let her go just yet. “Georgia-May, about—” I falter. Inside, I’m dying to ask her to start over, to revisit that kiss that still lingers on my mind. But when I try to speak, nothing comes out except a heavy sigh.
“We’re good, Blake, seriously,” she reassures me, sensing my struggle.
I pause, searching for the right words, then slowly say, “You’re so young, so beautiful. And Coco, she’s unbelievably sweet. I swear I’ll keep you both safe. But you don’t need me in your life forever.”
“Forever, huh?” Her voice is tinged with depth and a note of caution.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before. Believe me, my encounters with women have always been fleeting, and I don’t want to hurt you because that’s all I seem capable of. I respect you more than anything. Trust me, it’s for the best,” I explain, each word heavy with the sincerity of my intentions, even as it pains me.
Her eyes search for the truth behind my words, a silent question hanging between us about the possibilities of what could be versus what should be.
Unexpectedly, she places a hand on my shoulder. My pulse skips, wanting more, but before I can respond to the warmth of her touch, she leaves.
Yet I’m compelled to say more. “I was married, but my wife died.”
Georgia-May stops in her tracks, then slowly returns to sit beside me, maintaining a careful distance. “I’m sor?—”
I raise my hand to stop her. “Please, don’t say sorry. And again, don’t try to read into it.”
She exhales sharply, frustration and resignation coloring her tone. “Fine. You’re merely my bodyguard. If that’s even the right word for it. So, your past and everything else don’t matter to me,” she declares, a dismal acceptance that slices through any pretense of personal connection. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she stands to leave, a deep sense of regret crashes over me. The ache in my head throbs in time with the relentless beating behind my ribcage. My reaction to her simple apology was raw and unrestrained, and now I’ve catastrophically sabotaged a moment that might have allowed our emotional barriers to dissolve even slightly.
She seems to have accepted the bleak reality of our situation, but I’m left to grapple with the sensation of plummeting into an abyss.