Page 208 of Things Left Unsaid

“From those punks?” I scoff, holding out my hand for her to take. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine.” She rubs her forehead with her free hand. “You’re a Korhonen, yes, but you’re not untouchable.”

“You’re scared for me.” She lets me tug her against my chest. When I brush her forehead with a kiss, I murmur, “I know what I said about us spending the night apart…”

“Can we not do that?” is her choked answer.

Another kiss to her temple and I guide us both to our wing. I can feel the soft jitters rushing through her small frame and I know it’s going to be one hell of a night. The prospect only has me tightening my arm around her as we step down the hall.

I bring us to a halt outside of her room. “Do you want a choice on what you eat or shall I pick?”

Her nose crinkles. “Do you hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“That I’m diabetic.”

My brow furrows. “No. It’s a part of who you are.”

“I hate it,” she rasps. “Sometimes I wish I were normal. Wish that my husband going off with a shotgun and facing a bunch of bikers just made me scared and didn’t send my blood sugar spiraling. We’re going to sleep together for the first time, and all night, we’re going to get alerts because I’m?—”

“Those alerts keep you alive.” Turning her to face me, my hands cup her shoulders. “They keep youhere. With me. That’s the only place I want you, Zee.”

“It’s the only place I want to be.”

“Then why the long face?” I tease, even as my heart soars at her admission. “Part of being with me is dealing with a kid brother who never shuts the hell up, a mum who forces us to drink tea, and a housekeeper who’s part poltergeist. We all have our crosses to bear.”

Her snort has me grinning as I chuck her under the chin. “Shut up.”

I wink. “Who’s deciding on your food, hmm?”

With a soft huff, she disappears into her bedroom. Twice, she looks back as if she expects me to disappear, but I just hold out my hand for her to take.

Right on cue, an alert sounds.

Before she pops a dose of glucose gel, she passes me a few more as well as some granola bars.

With a tug on her hand, I lead her into my bedroom.

She doesn’t cross the doorway, just hovers there. “It looks as if it’s the same room your grandfather slept in.”

“He did.”

“The same furniture?”

“I changed the mattress,” I tease.

“That’s a relief.” She detangles the clasp of our hands and drifts around the bedroom. “I didn’t realize you were that much into baseball memorabilia.”

“Recent thing. Comes with access to a trust fund and a reckless lack of care about how much I spend.”

At my mocking tone, she hums and trails a finger along a glass box that houses a baseball while I head for the nightstand to check her blood sugar on my cell. Seeing it’s approaching normal, I direct, “You can eat the granola bar.”

She does but asks, “What’s special about the ball?”

“Mark McGwire hit it for his 70th home run in the ’98 season with the Cardinals.”

“You’re a Cardinals fan?”

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