Page 37 of Desiring an Angel

“No.” I swallowed hard. “You’re staying here.”

“But…” She bit her lip.

“No buts. You’re going to soak in the bathtub, jets on full blast, then crawl into that nice big bed and sleep. And in the morning, you’re going to explore your new home and make that kitchen your own. It’ll be the perfect job for now—house-sitting until we return.”

“When will you be back?” she whispered.

“As soon as his parent’s affairs are put in order. It could be two days or it could be a week. Rhett will help his dad to plan the details of the wake and funeral, and I’ll be there for them both whether they think they need me or not.”

She grabbed hold of my hand, lacing our fingers together. “You’re a good man, Ashton Blackwood. Let’s go pack your bag.”

13

Rhett

Dad finally pulled the plug. I’ll call you in the morning.

I had kept the texted news short since exhaustion tempted to drag me under. Turning off and tossing aside my cell, I scrubbed a weary hand over my face, grimacing at the thick scruff I usually kept neatly trimmed. I needed a long, hot shower and a good night’s sleep on the hotel’s mattress where my phone rested.

Dad had ignored my pleas earlier in the day to let her go and once again hadn’t said a word beyond a muttered “No.”

Eventually, I had retired to my hard, plastic chair beside the window in my mom’s hospital room and gave Dad the silence he wanted. Without another plan to move forward, I’d grown more agitated with every passing hour, a sense of helplessness I couldn’t stand looming over my head.

Time had wasted away while I sat powerless to make shit happen.

I’d concluded there was no use in my sticking around in Florida, and as I’d opened my mouth to announce I was leaving, Dad had released a harsh sob.

My jaw had snapped shut, and I’d stared at his bowed head and heaving shoulders.

Why the man had broken down—I didn’t understand. He’d never shown an ounce of emotion, not even anger, when I’d been a child. But the grief he’d portrayed in that moment…he was a fucking mess.

He’d clung to her fingers, kissing and stroking the back of her hand over his cheek.

An ache had slidden over my chest, and I’d rubbed at it, trying to align the man I’d known to the one I’d stared at.

Nothing made sense—until he had straightened, dried his tears, and stood, a heavy exhale relaxing the tension in his shoulders. His spine set, he’d pressed the nurse’s button.

“It’s time,” he’d told the nurse, his voice unmoved as always.

There, I’d thought, there’s the strong backbone.

I’d stayed out of the way when Dad spoke with the doctors, and arrangements were made to let Mom go. He hadn’t glanced my way, nor had he acknowledged my presence in the room.

Mom’s chest had stopped rising, and Dad had once more sat silent and stoic as though the death of his wife hadn’t affected him.

I had barreled forward toward the next step we had to take, needing to finish so I could return home.

“Tomorrow,” Dad had snipped when I’d attempted to discuss Mom’s burial.

I forced myself to shower before collapsing on the hotel bed, ready to pass the fuck out so I would be rested for the following day of details and attempting to work with my father to create a plan.

Blackness offered release from thought, and I welcomed it with open arms.

Details could wait for the sunrise.

A knock stirred me from deep sleep in the middle of the night.

Cursing at my first good rest since arriving in Florida being interrupted, I crawled from the bed and peered out the peephole.

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