Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(83)

She had children to care for.

When her husband had died, they’d been too young to understand, and John had been deployed more than he’d been home. Their world hadn’t been disrupted. But this time, they were old enough to grieve for the great grandfather who’d willingly stepped up to fill the role of a father.

Just as he had for Morgan and her siblings.

Grandpa had been her rock. Without him, she’d never have gotten through the deaths of her parents and then John. She couldn’t imagine losing him.

Who did you turn to when your source of comfort was gone?

But someday that would happen, even if it wasn’t today. No one lived forever. And when that day came, her girls would need Morgan to be strong. She would have to be their rock. She couldn’t allow herself to sink again.

She turned the water to cold and stuck her head under the spray, letting the shock of freezing water jolt her out of her heartache. Shivering, she shut off the water and dried herself.

Morgan emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair hanging down her back and soaking the borrowed T-shirt. Her eyes were raw, and her face felt tender from crying. No matter how much resolve she mustered, the despair inside her refused to back down.

She’d never felt so alone.

In the bedroom, she stepped into the sweat pants Lance had given her, tying the drawstring tight to keep them from falling down. Returning to the hall, she glanced into his room. The decor reflected him: all masculine, nothing fussy.

His furniture was modern and clean-lined. A dark-wood dresser and leather headboard. The king-size bed was covered in a solid navy-blue comforter. A single nightstand held a clock, a lamp, and a book. The entire room smelled faintly of his cedar-scented body wash. She sniffed her skin. So did she.

She’d slept in his guest room once before. But that’s not where she wanted—or needed—to be tonight.

The sounds of soft piano chords floated down the hall. The poignant lyrics of “Tears in Heaven” pulled her into the living room. Lance sat at the piano. He wore gray sweatpants and a snug black T-shirt. His short hair was still damp from his shower. A tumbler of whiskey occupied a coaster on top of the gleaming mahogany.

She knew he used music to express emotions he couldn’t verbalize. Sadness poured out of him. Was he thinking about the suffering of the woman they’d rescued? Her grandfather, his own long-missing father, or the damage his disappearance had done to his family?

If anyone understood her grief, it was Lance.

She crossed the room and sat next to him on the bench.

He paused, hands over the keys. His eyes grew worried as he scanned her face. “Are you OK?”

“Please, don’t stop.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.

He continued. His voice was soft and gentle, doing justice to the pure and simple anguish in the song.

When he’d finished, he turned his head to plant a soft kiss on her head. “Did you call Peyton?”

She nodded. “She says he’s the same, and she’ll call if that changes. Did you talk to Sharp?”

“I did. He’s still at my mom’s house. He’s too tired to drive home and is staying there tonight.”

Lance craned his neck to view her face. “It’s been a long few days. You should get some sleep. Are you sure I can’t feed you? Scrambled eggs or toast maybe?”

“I’m not hungry.” And she wasn’t ready to settle either. Restlessness pawed at her. “Do you believe in heaven?” Morgan had lost her father, her mother, and her husband. With her grandfather’s life in jeopardy, she wanted to think they were somewhere, waiting for him.

That he wouldn’t be alone.

He picked up his whiskey and drank. “I don’t know. I hope so. I hate to think this is it.”

And on that note, she reached for his glass.

He held the glass tight. “Remember what happened last time?”

“I’m not going to get drunk.” She had no tolerance for alcohol, something she’d demonstrated to him in the past. “I could get a call at any time. But I need the warmth.”

“I could make you a cup of tea,” he said as he released the glass.

“This is fine.” She took a small sip and handed it back to him. The whiskey burned a path down her raw throat. “Do you think your father is alive?”

He touched a key and pressed it softly. “Whatever happened, I can’t believe he’d just walk away from us.”

“How do you deal with not knowing?” Morgan asked.

His face went tight, his voice pained. “It wasn’t a choice.”

“No. It wasn’t.” The sigh that rolled through her grated like shards of broken glass. Pain welled up in her chest until she felt as if her heart would crack. Her next breath vibrated with it.

She reached for his face with both hands, cupping his jaw between her palms and drawing his face close enough to press her lips to his. The kiss started out soft and gentle then shifted to needy.

She needed him.

Her hands slid down to his shoulders.

“Morgan,” he said against her mouth, his words more breath than words.

She deepened the kiss.

He grabbed her wrists and broke their lip lock. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

A quick flash of anger shot through her. “I know exactly what I want.”