Page 23 of Thick and Thin

I almost spat out that he could have done that over the phone—and he certainly could have—but this gesture, coming here in person, meant a lot to me. It told me he really did care and, like it or not, my heart softened.

But Mr. Sherwood took two more steps toward Sinclair, getting too close and all but puffing out his chest. “You are her father’s enemy and yet here you are trying to win this young woman’s affections. You don’t deserve her.”

Had our relationship been that obvious?

I was gearing up to read him the riot act about making assumptions until I looked back at Sinclair. His eyes quickly shifted from his usual confident self—to something I didn’t recognize…but I suspected his expression had looked the same just a week ago when he’d held me tightly, so close that I couldn’t look in his face.

There was pain in his eyes and I knew—everything, from the tightness of his lips to the furrow of his brow, from his whole life was on display on his face.

He believed it…that he was unworthy of my love.

“No. You’re wrong,” I said, my voice calm and steady again but even more emphatic. “Aside from my father, Sinclair is the best man I’ve ever known. We didn’t see eye to eye at first, but he is not his father. He has made sure my every need has been taken care of—and my father’s as well. That’s why I’m here right now. And he offered to pay for my education…and his contributions to WCC were made so that he could help students get a better education. He doesn’t just do that for the college, either—he is a charitable man.”

“I see you’ve swallowed the Kool-Aid just like the rest of Winchester. That’s disappointing, Anna—you could have done so much in your position. We could have been so good together.”

But I wasn’t paying attention to him—I was looking at Sinclair and it was as if I had inflated him like a balloon. Had no one other than Edna ever told him how special he was? How important he was?

How good and kind?

I knew now that much of his gruff, prickly persona had been nothing more than armor. Inside, the part he’d let me see, was a loving, tender man who had become the world to me.

“I think you’d better leave,” he said, his voice once again sounding confident and self-assured. “If you don’t want to do it willingly, I’ll help you.”

“Get off my property” came a voice from behind me. When had my father come outside? And how much had he heard?

Mr. Sherwood’s face was red—not from embarrassment but from anger. “You haven’t heard the last of me!” he spat at Sinclair before storming out of the yard.

Sinclair said, “Mr. Miller,” and held out his hand.

My father, for his part, looked weak, as if he were going to fall down, making me question how effective that infusion was going to be. But we’d been told that weakness and fatigue the first few days were common side effects.

“Dad, you need to rest.”

Still, my father shook Sinclair’s hand—and then Sinclair helped me get him inside the house. Behind us, we heard a loud crash and I turned my head to see what had happened. Mr. Sherwood began speeding off in his car, after having backed into Sinclair’s. But Sinclair simply said, “He’d do well with an anger management class.”

I laughed—and I’d apparently needed it.

Once my father returned to his recliner, he took a sip of water. “You’re right, princess. I need to rest.”

“Will you be okay if I go for a little bit?”

“I’ve got my phone,” dad said, nodding toward where it set next to the lamp on the end table.

“Call if you need anything. I’ll be back soon.” And then I turned to Sinclair. “We need to talk.”

Giving me a quick nod, he waited—and then followed me out the front door.

The damage to Sinclair’s white BMW, one of his many cars, had been minimal—just a few scratches on the bumper. After he’d helped me in the car, he’d gotten in the driver’s seat and drove off as if he knew exactly where he was going.

And, it turned out, he did.

When he turned onto the main highway that cut through Winchester, he turned his car to the east. Before I could figure out exactly what I wanted to get off my chest, he said, “I’m going to pick up some Chinese takeout—and if your father’s up for it, I’d like to share a meal with you both at your house.”

“He could barely eat the breakfast I made him.”

“I’m hungry. I could talk to him and we could eat afterward instead.”

I was hungry too since I hadn’t had a chance to eat—and the French toast wouldn’t be as good cold. So I nodded, knowing exactly where we were going. There were two Chinese restaurants in Winchester but he was driving toward the one my father and I had eaten at once or twice, and I’d always loved it. It was one of the few places in town where I’d actually felt welcome.

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