Page 49 of Never Say Never

Heart swelling, I go to open the door to the car, but he pulls me in to him and kisses my mouth hard and with passion. “Wait.”

Then he’s out of the car, practically sprinting around to the other side, opening my door and lifting me down only to pull me in against him for another kiss. It isn’t until he’s gone and I’m standing there alone that I realize he didn’t say the words back.

At least I have the constantly ringing emergency line to distract me.

And everything goes back to normal—mostly. Same with the following day when I drive in by myself.

Normal I can take and handle better than anything else. It’s just the little strange parts, the calls that come in from private numbers.

Not calls to the center. But to my cell.

They happen.

Wrong number calls happened before everything, and I’m sure they will again without a doubt. It’s not frequent or stalkerish or anything, so I know there’s nothing to worry about. All it takes is the wrong digit, but the way I feel with the swirl of hormones and emotions make my heart lurch every time something weird happens. Just like when I came home to an open door and ended up moving in with Travis. Or when my car went crazy and acted up for no reason. Or when it feels like I am being followed home when I’m not.

Suspicious by nature and pregnant with hormones on top of it aren’t mixing well for me.

Mama Masterson calls to check in on me, something she does on a regular basis now that she has a grandchild coming along. It isn’t every day, normally, more like once a week. This week she’s checked on me twice, I realize. But that isn’t abnormal, just something that gives me a small burst of warmth when I think about it.

I’ve never had a mother, a real mother who does motherly things like check on me or ask what she can do to spoil her grandbaby, and Travis’ mom is exactly what I imagined a mom should be like. A real mother, a regular one who baked for her kids, and who made sure that they were able to live, who cares and who treats me like a daughter.

I love her almost as much as I love Travis.

The phone rings again and it’s another private call, making me feel like all the craziness is real. My hand hovers over the device, but I snatch it away, leaving the phone on the coffee table as I pad off to the kitchen to make a hot chocolate.

If it’s a wrong number again, they’ll hear my voicemail message and know and if it’s someone who wants to talk to me, they’ll leave a message and a callback number if they need to. But I’m tired down to the very tips of my toes and all I want is hot chocolate and my husband to curl up against. And he should be home soon.

But shift change comes and goes and I wash the mug and make myself a sandwich and doze on the couch, waiting for Travis.

I know what time he gets off work. Of course I do. Hell, half the time we’re on the same shift together, so he should be home. But he doesn’t come home on time, not even close. It’s almost eleven p.m., seven hours after shift change, before I see the flash of lights in the drive signaling his cruiser pulling in.

I wait until his boots thump on the mudroom floor before I sit up on the sofa and rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes.

“Long day?”

He nods as I get up and I go to him. “Poor baby.”

“That’s my line,” he says.

Travis smiles at me and draws me in against his chest and I can’t help but melt in against him, laying my head on his heart, the steady beat soothing, reassuring as I do so.

“I should have called you, Brandi. Or sent a text.”

I just stay where I am in the circle of his arms. “It’s okay.”

“There was another accident.”

Something about his words twist hard inside me. I don’t know why, but I don’t believe him. Although, why would he lie? It will be easy enough for me to check. Yet doing that is taking steps I don’t want to take. Putting into action things I can’t take back.

I draw back, looking up at him, hating the way the blood thrums through my ears as I try to keep my voice normal and wobble free. “I hope it wasn’t bad.”

He sighs and pulls free, moving into the kitchen and pulling open the door to the fridge. “Nope. Just the usual. Which means paperwork.”

“Okay.”

He peers around the side of the fridge, a bottle of orange juice in one hand. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just hungry.” I hate that the lie slips free so easily.

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