Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Mo went to bed that night in his own house and without looking at a computer screen. As much as he was itching to dig deeper into Bob and Peter Brown and the corruption and blackmail at The Haven, his body screamed for sleep. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. His entire body ached.
His heart, however, was . . . not hurting, but it was not content either.
Bronwyn was staying with Meredith tonight. And they were close enough for him not to worry about her safety as they slept.
But he had so many other things to worry about.
He’d long ago given up on any true resolution with Bronwyn.
On the rare occasions he allowed himself to think about it with any kind of hope, he assumed it would be months, maybe even years, before they found any kind of equilibrium.
He’d been prepared for weeks of awkward interactions, stilted conversations, and ultimately, a lifetime of regret.
But she’d kissed him. And he’d kissed her.
Everyone was treating them like a couple.
But he had no idea what they were.
Before he went horizontal, he knelt by his bed. “Lord, I got nothing. No clue. Really?” He stayed there until he realized he’d nodded off. “Sorry about that, Lord. Where was I? Oh yeah. I can’t do this. I want her. And I’m terrified of her. Or of what she could do to me.”
He slid under the quilt without more words.
His faith had taken a nosedive in the years after Bronwyn’s departure.
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God anymore.
But he’d felt betrayed by both him and Bronwyn, and the journey back to a place where he could trust God with much of anything had been a long one.
Over the past few years, he’d seen things he simply couldn’t attribute to anything other than God’s hand. And now he had no trouble laying his burdens before God, leaving them there, and going to sleep. He and God both knew he’d do his best to pick them up and carry them for himself in the morning.
What he hadn’t expected was for the morning not to come until 11:30 a.m.
He woke up slowly, and when he reached for the phone by his bedside and saw the time, he dropped it on his chest and groaned.
Then he took stock. His body still hurt, but the headache was gone. His mind was clearer than it had been in days. And once he got some coffee in him, he expected he’d be able to tackle the computer searches he desperately needed to finish.
His need to clear Bronwyn’s name, protect her from her family, and stake some kind of claim that would let everyone know that she was his all swirled through him and drove him to roll out of bed and rush through his morning routine far faster than he normally would.
The sun was shining, the air was warm, and Bronwyn sat on Meredith’s small front porch.
She wore a tank top and shorts, her wet hair was twisted into a messy bun, and her bare feet were propped up on the railing.
As he walked toward her, he could see that she had a coffee in hand, eyes closed, and a makeup-free face lifted to the sun.
She must have heard him when he walked outside, but she didn’t so much as twitch when he stepped onto the porch. But when he stopped in front of her, blocking the sunshine from falling on her body, her eyebrows rose, even though her eyes stayed closed. “You’re messing with my vitamin D absorption.”
He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her. He cradled her face in his hand and brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. “You’re so beautiful.”
He didn’t make any move to come closer. Would she pull away? Would she reject what was unquestionably an advance?
Her eyelids fluttered open, and her smile was soft. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still think so today. Yesterday was . . . a lot.”
“It was.” She leaned into his hand, and he found a few more words. “What are you thinking today?”
She reached up and pressed her hand to his. “If you haven’t booked a flight to Spitsbergen, then I’d say today has promise.”
“Spitsbergen?”
“Norway.”
He tilted her head up, and she let him.
She didn’t break eye contact, but her breathing sped up. “It’s a . . . small island.”
He leaned toward her.
“Very cold.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Bronwyn?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I kiss you?”
Her eyes flashed. “You’d better.”
He rested his free hand on the arm of the chair and narrowed the distance between them without breaking eye contact. He paused a breath away from her mouth, giving her one more second to change her mind.
Her arms reached around his neck and pulled him to her. She started the kiss, and for a few seconds, his brain short-circuited in a heady mix of shock, awe, delight, and bone-deep certainty that he would never kiss anyone else.
She was it for him. She always had been. She always would be.
He adjusted his stance and pulled her to her feet and then he was kissing her with all the emotions and dreams and longings he’d kept buried deep inside.
When they broke apart, he held her in his arms and rested his forehead against hers, gratified that her breathing was as erratic as his.
“Mo?”
“Hmm?”
She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t press her. She’d talk when she was ready. And he’d listen. For now, he was content to listen to her heartbeat. Sometimes nonverbal communication did the job just fine.
At some point, she pulled in a deep breath, leaned back, and took his face in her hands. “Good morning.”
He knew he had a goofy grin plastered on his face and he didn’t care. “I think we should make it a point to say good morning like this every day.”
She ducked her head and bit her bottom lip. “I’d like that.”
“Then it’s a deal.”
She stepped back, but instead of pulling away from him, she slid her hand down his arm, then laced her fingers through his. “Come inside and have some decent coffee. Then let’s talk about what we need to do today.”
Bronwyn wasn’t sure what had gotten into her.
She’d spent most of the morning staring at Mo’s house, wondering what would happen when he woke up and she had to face him.
Instead of talking to him like a rational adult, she’d flirted shamelessly, kissed him, and clung to him after the kiss had made her too dizzy to stand on her own.
She didn’t remember his kisses being quite so . . . potent. She grabbed a dish towel off Meredith’s counter and fanned herself.
She needed to stop thinking about kissing Mo and focus on surviving the day. In her spare time, she needed to do all she could to keep everyone alive and not dwell on the fact that if Mo couldn’t figure out who was behind the blackmail, she might not have a job anymore.
She poured a cup of coffee and added cream, then handed it to Mo. He took it with a quizzical look on his face.
“What?”
He took a sip. “This is perfect.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“How did you know how to make it?”
She refreshed her own mug. “Paying attention to what people like is kind of my job.” She slid the carafe back onto its base. “Although I will admit that I don’t generally remember how people like their coffee.”
“So, what? I’m a special case?” He didn’t sound like he minded that idea at all.
“Maybe.” She was flirting again. This had to stop. She opened the fridge door and peered inside. “Meredith has no food. Do you think it’s safe for us to go into town? Maybe grab a pizza from Lionel? Oh, and my ice cream. I need to pick up my ice cream. And—”
“Bronwyn?”
She closed the refrigerator a little harder than she’d intended and everything inside rattled. She leaned against it. “Oops.”
Mo studied her. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” she said in a voice a full octave higher than her usual pitch. She cleared her throat to try again. “Right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Why do you ask?”
Mo shrugged. “No reason.” A smile tugged at his lips.
He took her hand and pulled her along, out of Meredith’s home and toward his. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing you lunch.”
Mo opened the door to his house, and Bronwyn stepped in for the first time.
His tiny home was laid out just like Cal’s.
There was a narrow staircase on one wall that led to a loft.
His kitchen was small but functional. But where Cal’s place had a sofa and a small but functional living space, Mo had . . . a desk.
A massive desk filled the space. Four computer monitors sat angled around a chair that looked like it had given inspiration to the designers of a space opera. A cozy chair with a soft blanket, a small ottoman, and a reading lamp were the only concession to comfort or relaxation.
The space was all Mo.
And it was all wrong.
He waved a hand around the room. “Make yourself at home. There’s a chair.” He opened his refrigerator and pulled out two glass casserole dishes. “We have options. Chicken supreme or lasagna. Which do you want?”
“Chicken supreme, please,” she answered without looking. She was too busy studying his decor. Photos lined the wall. Each one had a modern feel, the subject matter was eclectic, and they were all in black and white.
The sound of spoons on glass filled the air as Mo filled plates and slid them into the microwave. “It would taste better if we heated it up in the oven, but I’m getting antsy.”
So was she. But she’d bet it wasn’t for the same reason. Everything she saw was monotone. Black, white, and every shade of gray.
Was this how Mo lived? All day long, in front of computer screens, in a tiny space devoid of anything bright?
And then, on the refrigerator, she saw a splash of color.
Wild, vibrant, completely chaotic. She recognized the artist, and once she saw it, she noticed more evidence of the artist’s touch.
A potholder in a garish neon orange. A frame on the desk with pressed leaves inside.
Another frame held a collage of photos with Mo and the artist. Their smiles lit the room and soothed the ache in her chest. A small vase with a few lumps, the hallmark of a novice potter, held a bold red poppy made with Meredith’s signature style.