Page 12 of Half Baked

“But he shot at Jeremy first. The only reason Jeremy’s still alive is because that asshole had bad aim.”

I shook my head. “Once he realized he’d missed, he would have shot at him again, Noah.”

He looked lost in thought, then something shifted in his eyes and he asked, “How did the tour go?”

“Forget the tour,” I said in exasperation. “You were just shot.”

“Which is becoming a frequent occurrence,” he said unhappily. “I’d rather not dwell on it. So tell me about the tour.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Lance said you were planning to come with me. Why?”

He started to talk, then stopped, confusion in his eyes.

“Never mind,” I said, feeling like a first-class bitch. This wasn’t the time to dig for information about his feelings for me.

Time and place, Maddie.

But it occurred to me that in every relationship before this one, I’d put my own feelings on the back burner to smooth over disagreements. I wasn’t doing that anymore. Things were weird with Noah, but I was going to be truthful. Even if it hurt.

“I don’t really know where we stand, Noah.”

He gave a sharp nod.

“But I obviously care about you,” I continued. “I was terrified when I heard you’d been shot, and I even lied at the front desk to get back here.”

His eyebrow cocked and the corner of his mouth lifted. “Lied?”

Cringing, I said, “I told them I was your fiancée.”

A grin spread across his face.

“Stop that!” I said half-heartedly, my heart skipping a beat. When Noah smiled at me, it made me forget everything else. “You broke up with me.”

“I didn’t break up with you,” he said, looking contrite. “I want to be with you, but I need to get my head screwed on straight.”

“Because of your father.”

His brow shot up, then he scowled. “You’ve been talking to Lance.”

“I’m not an idiot, Noah. We were happy before you went home, and I know the man’s a first-class asshole. It wasn’t hard to piece it together.”

“I don’t want to talk about him. Now tell me how you feel about the place for your aunt.”

I wanted to push him on his father. We hadn’t resolved anything. He was merely sweeping the past few weeks of silence under the rug. But really needed to tell someone about my mixed feelings about putting Aunt Deidre in St. Vincent’s, and I wanted it to be him.

Maybe Iwasan idiot.

But it occurred to me that I could also tell him about Howard Bergan and his cryptic words. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I have reservations. The cost to put her there might be enough to dissuade me. The receptionist says it could be about eight thousand a month.”

“Eight thousand?” he asked in disbelief. “What about insurance or Medicare?”

“I have to talk to the director about the financials. She got called away for a meeting. I’d probably have to sell my aunt’s house to pay for it, but Noah, something happened while I was there. I saw—”

The door opened, and a woman in scrubs and a white lab coat entered the room. “Detective Langley, I’m Dr. Donahue, and I’m here to stitch up that wound.” She turned to me and narrowed her eyes. “You look familiar. Have you been in the ER recently?”

I cringed.

“Maddie was shot back in December,” Noah said.

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