Bridges Burned (Going Down in Flames #2)(62)

When they reached her suite, he stood in the living room, shaking his head. “This is amazing.”

“It’s pretty awesome.” She pointed at the paper bag he carried. “Is that lemon ice?”

“As requested.” He pointed at the couch. “Should we sit here, or is there a dining room table hiding in your closet?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I just moved in this morning.” Her voice wavered.

He pulled her to the couch. “You can tell me when you’re ready. Whatever it is, I’m here for you literally and figuratively.”

Maybe ripping it off like a bandage would be best. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She cleared her throat. “My parents are…” Saying it made it more real and a thousand times more painful. “There was a bomb,” she choked out. “They’re gone.”

And then it was like a dam broke open inside her. She was sobbing and Valmont was holding her and making soothing noises that didn’t do any good, because how could they? Her parents were dead. She’d never see them again. No more pancakes for breakfast. No more Battleship tournaments with her dad. No more anything, ever again. It was impossible for her brain to accept that her parents had just ceased to exist, and in their place was this giant aching void of sorrow. She sobbed until her throat was raw.

Valmont shifted, and then a wad of napkins appeared in front of her face. “I’m sure there’s Kleenex or silk handkerchiefs around here someplace, but for now this is the best I can do.”

She managed a smile. “Thanks.” The paper napkins were rough against her skin. Her face felt windburned from all the salt in her tears. “I better go splash some water on my face.”

Valmont nodded. She looked at him and realized his shirt was wet through. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll live.” He said the words, and then his smile faltered. “I’m sorry. That—”

“It’s okay.” Her eyes burned. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

After splashing her face with cold water, she checked the mirror. Wow. Those actresses in movies who cried and managed to look pretty afterward must be super talented. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Her nose was tomato red and her cheeks looked as windburned as they felt. Looking like crap when she felt like crap didn’t seem fair. A girl should be able to catch a break somewhere. Wait a minute. She channeled Quintessence to her face and returned her cheeks to normal color. Her eyes she didn’t want to mess with.

Valmont’s sweatshirt hung on the hook on the back of the bathroom door where she’d left it when she’d changed earlier. Would he want to change out of his tear-soaked and dear God please don’t let it be snot-stained shirt into something drier? She’d offer it to him and see what he thought.

When she went back into the living room area, Valmont was whispering into his cell phone. Who was he calling? Was he trying to keep something from her?

Feeling wrong about what she was going to do but doing it anyway, she walked up behind him quietly and listened as best she could.

“Yes, Grandfather. I know. There isn’t much we can do about it now. Yes. I’ll ask her. No…no, that isn’t an option at this point. I’ll stop by on my way to the cabin. No. You don’t have to meet me there. Yes…yes… Fine, if you insist, bring a tray of cannelloni.”

Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, she walked into his line of sight. “Talking to your grandpa?”

“Yes. He heard that several students’ family’s had been attacked. He called to see if he could offer any assistance. The man thinks everything can be fixed with food.”

Thank God. He wasn’t involved in some plot. Just dealing with an overprotective grandfather, which was nice. “Most of the time food helps.”

She held the sweatshirt out to him. “Since I cried all over you, I thought you might want to change.”

He glanced down at his shirt. “Good idea.” He pointed back the way she came. “Bathroom is this way?”

“Yes. Don’t be surprised if all the lemon ice is gone by the time you get back.”

She picked up the carryout container of lemon ice. It looked like the containers ice cream came in from the store. Curious, she checked the bottom of the container. It read, “Lemon Gelato, New York, NY.”

Disappointment settled on her shoulders like a heavy blanket. Which was ridiculous. Did it matter than Valmont’s family didn’t make the lemon ice from scratch like the rest of their food? She said a small prayer that they did make the rest of their food from scratch. If she rifled through the restaurant storage area and found giant industrial-sized containers of Ragu, she’d be completely disillusioned.

It didn’t matter where the lemon ice was made. Valmont brought it to her because he cared, so love went into it even if it didn’t come from Fonzoli’s kitchen.

When the guy she was thinking about strolled toward her wearing the sweatshirt she’d had on hours before, all doubt vanished from her mind. Valmont was a good guy. It didn’t matter where the lemon ice came from or whom he’d been talking to on the phone.

“I expected half of that to be gone by now.”

“I could lie and say I was waiting to share, but I was lost in thought.” She opened the bag and pulled out a plastic spoon the size of a ladle.