Page 55 of Gifts

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” I look at Keelie. “I’ll be downstairs.”

I check my emails, text Crew and Grady about my house and Keelie’s car, and pull up the video of the drive-by one more time. I put my phone on silent and watch it over and over, wondering what we’re missing.

I hear her come back down the stairs and when she comes around the corner, she eyes me before going straight to the kitchen. I get up and follow, fucking finally ready to have a minute alone. Having four kids around is not without its drawbacks, especially when I want to know what she’s thinking.

She never changed out of my shirt. She slipped on a pair of wide, loose pants, and the only curve I see on her is where my shirt hangs on her tits. She’s pulled her hair up high and washed all the makeup from her face.

“You hungry?” I start.

Not looking at me, she heads to her laundry room and mutters, “No.”

I hear her banging around and I can tell she’s changing laundry again. Holy hell, how much laundry can she have? She’s been at it all night.

When she finally comes out, she’s on a mission and doesn’t look at me. I catch her by the arm as she tries to breeze by and I demand, “Slow down.”

She glares and tries to shrug out of my hold. “I can’t. I have things I want to get done before tomorrow.”

I tip my head. “What could possibly need doing before tomorrow?”

She pulls again and I let go of her arm. “I have files to go over this weekend. My underclassmen are picking courses for next year. I have to approve them. If I get them done tonight, I can spend more time with the kids this weekend.”

I ignore all that. “Did you take something else for the pain?”

She rubs her arm under her stitches. “I just did.”

“Sit down and take a load off. Your files can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

She takes a step backward. “No. If I get them done tonight, I won’t have it looming over me the rest of the weekend.”

“Keelie—” I try, but she keeps talking.

“I’d like to keep painting the third floor tomorrow. All I have left are the wall—”

I’ve had enough.

Stepping forward, I catch her off guard and pin her against the counter.

“It’s time to stop for the day,” I demand.

Her face hardens and she tries to push against me. “Move.”

“No. I want to talk about what happened this afternoon.”

“I talked to you about it in the ambulance. I sort of talked about it on the way home. Then I talked to you and the police about it for longer than I cared to, rehashing events I want to put out of my mind. I’m done talking.”

“Okay,” I lower my voice and bring my hands up to cup her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about today. I want to know if you’re okay.”

“I feel a little stiff from the stitches, but I’m sure the meds will kick in soon.”

I lean into her and whisper, “I’m not talking about your shoulder.”

I feel her chest rise against mine—her breathing quickens and her nostrils flare. Her hands come up to my forearms, but I hold steady.

“Dammit,” her voice shakes. “Let me go.”

I lean in closer. “You were shot at today.”

She rolls her lips together and her brow puckers.

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