Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Loren
“Noah!”
I’ve almost reached my car when I spot his familiar man-bun crossing the courtyard. He doesn’t hear me, so I call out again, striding in his direction.
“NOAH!” I shriek.
Loud and desperate, just the way a lady likes to sound. But I can’t help it. My head’s still reeling from the news that Bridger might’ve been visiting my dad. For weeks. My heart’s reeling too.
And yes, asking Noah if he knows anything could raise questions. As far as he knows, Bridger and I are strictly friends.
But I need confirmation more than caution.
He looks up and waves, changing courses and crossing the parking lot. “Hey, Loren,” he says, jogging up to me. “It’s been a minute. Glad I ran into you.”
“Me too.”
Although technically, we didn’t run into each other. I just screamed his name like a banshee.
“I wanted you to know, your dad’s been doing great,” he says. “Really great.” A wide smile takes over half his face, and his bright blue eyes match his scrubs. But right now, the only wide smile and bright eyes I’m interested in belong to my husband.
My secret husband, who’s been visiting my father.
Secretly.
“That’s so great!” I chirp. “Really great.” Because of course Dad doing great is the whole reason for moving him to Havenwood in the first place. But now that we’ve established that bit of information, I need to know more about Bridger. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I mean … sure.” Noah squints. “His behavioral and cognitive functions have steadied. For now.”
I nod. “Yes … and?”
“And his whole team thinks his being here has been key.” Noah glances back at the building. “The routine. The companionship. The stimulation. All that.”
“Great,” I repeat. “That’s definitely good to hear.” I let out a nervous breath. There’s a stretch of silence, besides a bird squawking at us from a maple tree.
“Okay.” Noah glances up at the bird, then back at me. “So, is there something else you still want to ask me, specifically?”
“There is.” I blink. “Specifically. Yes.”
Yes … and?
I’ve heard positive updates about my dad before.
In fact, when Foster was my dad’s neurologist, he told me exactly what I wanted to hear.
Until he didn’t. Which is partly why our new neurologist is a married grandmother of twelve.
And also why I spent the past eight months convinced I was done with men forever.
Romantically speaking.
The thing is, I want to trust men again. Scratch that. I want to trust people in general. Especially Bridger, who’s got my heart fluttering with feelings. More-than-friend feelings. Still, before I talk to Bridger, I want to double-check.
A. If he visits Havenwood, he probably cares about my dad.
B. If he sings our songs in the shower, he probably cares about us.
A plus B plus probably equals …
C. Bridger Adams cares about me. As more than a friend.
Unfortunately, this isn’t exactly a solid math equation. And no answer will ever be entirely safe for my heart. But still. I’m beginning to think my heart might be ready to take a risk.
“Has Bridger been visiting my dad?” I blurt.
No warmups or stretches. Just a full sprint of a question. Right into Noah’s face.
“Huh.” He strokes the scruff along his jawline. “That’s interesting.”
You think? Also, not an answer.
“Apparently, he comes in the afternoons? Like, every day?” I pause for a breath as uncertainty swirls in my stomach. “Except you haven’t said anything about it, and Bridger hasn’t said anything, either. Only my dad did. And let’s face it. He can be … an unreliable witness.”
My nose begins to sting, a tell-tale sign that I’m about to get teary. Which feels overly dramatic, not to mention embarrassing. Am I really going to cry in the Havenwood parking lot because my dad might have a visitor?
A secret visitor that D. You care about, too.
“Hey. It’s all right.” Noah’s eyes go soft. “Emotions are good.”
“Are they, though?” The words come out squelchy.
“Yeah. Go ahead. Let it out.”
“I just wish people would tell me things,” I sniffle.
“I get that, and I think I can clear this up.”
“Yes, please.” I blink and nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I need to get a grip, like yesterday.
“I’m in my office in the afternoon,” he says. “Meetings. Scheduling. Programming. Just your basic administrative stuff.” He runs a hand over his man-bun. “And my sessions with your dad are in the mornings, which is probably why I never ran into Bridger here myself.” Noah takes a beat. “However.”
“However?” I sniff, because apparently I’m repetitive today. Repetitive and weepy.
“Harlan did tell me someone’s been coming to see him.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.” He grimaces. “But he said it was your husband.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops, and my throat goes dry.
“I just figured …” He shrugs. “Temporary confusion, you know? Definitely not worth mentioning to you.”
“No, I get it,” I say. Cue a ripple of shaky laughter.
“To be honest, I was a little worried your dad might’ve been talking about your ex.”
“Foster?” I almost throw up a little in my mouth. No one should ever confuse that man with Bridger. “Oh, no.”
“I even checked the visitor logs for a Dr. Foster Abel. Believe me, if that guy had shown up here trying to worm his way back into your lives, I would’ve said something to you immediately.”
“I believe you.”
“Anyway.” He frowns. “No Foster.”
He says the name like it’s a curse, and yeah, I know the feeling. “What a relief,” I sigh. “And good riddance.”
“After that, I let the subject go,” Noah continues. “Disorientation with your dad is totally normal. And I didn’t want to risk upsetting anyone by bringing up your ex. Not when your dad’s been doing so well here in every other way.”
“No, I completely understand.”
“I’m glad.” He offers me a shy smile. “So. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes, and thank you so much.”
If I weren’t dying to get home and talk to Bridger, I’d hug Noah right here in the parking lot. He just confirmed what I was unsure of. The final piece in the puzzle of emotions I’ve been putting together for weeks.
Maybe longer.
As it turns out, my dad was right. Bridger has been visiting him. My kind, strong, excellent, brilliant, beautiful husband.
And whether or not I’ve been ready to admit this to myself, my feelings for him are real.
Now the man I married deserves to know I kind of like being his wife.
You should call Sayla.
This is my first thought as I make my way back home. But I know she’d have an opinion. And she’d probably want Dex to weigh in. And we could be starting a whole debate between the three of us before I even talked to Bridger.
So I don’t.
For the first time since we became close, I intentionally decide to keep Sayla out of the loop. At least for now. What if she tried talking me out of saying something to Bridger?
What if she succeeded?
I realize she’s just worried about him, and about me, and about what might happen to all four of us if Bridger and I were to implode.
That all makes sense. I don’t want to blow things up either.
But the only other choice is staying quiet.
And I won’t let miscommunication be the thing that stands between Bridger and me.
Honesty is the only answer.
At least I’ll be as honest as I can be, given the fact that I’m still confused myself. But there’s only one person who can help me work through this complicated mess, and that’s Bridger.
My husband.
As our rooftop emerges beyond the tree line, my lungs start working overtime. Hopefully, by the time I reach the house, I won’t hyperventilate, knowing what I know now. Feeling what I feel.
I pull up the circular drive and park behind Bridger’s car, while my mind plays a carousel of memories of the past few weeks. The past few years.
And the one constant is him.
When I come inside, I don’t call out to him. Instead, I toe out of my shoes and hook my bag on the coatrack. My hands are trembling, but the scent of something delicious wafts in from the kitchen, and a smile tugs at my lips.
This symbol of domesticity is so comfortable and familiar already. Bridger's cooking for me. Again. There’s so much we need to discuss. And I could be making a terrible mistake, even suggesting we try for more than friendship. But at least I’ll know.
He’ll know.
And from there, we can decide where we go. Together.
I take a quick peek in the wall-sized mirror in the entryway. Messy braid, red cheeks, no lipstick. These yoga pants and tank top aren’t exactly my dream outfit for this conversation, either. But the whole point is to not pretend anymore, right? This is who I am.
And anyway, I’m pretty sure Bridger likes this who.
From halfway down the hall, I have a straight view of him at the sink.
His muscles flex as he rinses and dries a pot, then sets it in the rack.
I cross the kitchen, coming up behind him quietly in my socked feet.
He must feel my presence ahead of time—or hear me or smell me or some other sense—because his shoulders straighten, and he shuts off the water. Then he turns. “I couldn’t tell—”
“Wait.” I cut him off, moving toward him.
“But—”
“Please.” I lift a finger to his lips. And he does what I ask. He waits.
Still, his jaw shifts, like he’s wrestling with something. Holding back. I hate that he feels like he has to hold back for me. He meets my gaze, pupils widening. How have I not seen this before?
Seen him?
This man who feeds me, and does yoga with me, and sings our wedding songs in the shower. Who loves our friends. Who visits my father because he cares about us both.
You have seen him, a voice inside me whispers. You were just scared.
“I don’t want to be scared,” I say under my breath. And before I can stop myself, I move to him, stepping in close, lifting up on my toes. And I press a soft, tentative kiss to his mouth.
He gasps.
Then his arms come for me.
One finds the lowest dip at my spine, notching in like it’s always belonged there. The other slides around my back, drawing my body nearer. And then his lips are on mine.
He feathers tender kisses at the corners of my mouth, my chin, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. When he slides to my neck, I can barely breathe. But in this moment, I don’t need oxygen or food or anything else. I just need him.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, coming back to my parted lips.
I believe you.
His words surge through my bones. Bridger Adams would die before he hurt me. So whatever happens, whatever we decide, I know he won’t be the one to break my heart.
“We need to talk,” I manage, breathlessly, as his mouth traces my jawline. “So we should stop.”
“Yes,” he rasps against my skin. “We should.”
“Ahem.” There’s a prim throat-clearing behind us, and my heart bolts into my throat.
“By all means,” a strange voice says. “Don’t stop on my account.”