Penthouse Prince(10)

Mom sighs. “All right, all right. I know when my advice isn’t wanted. I just worry sometimes, sweet pea. You and Grier are the only chicks in my nest.”

I smile at her. “I know, Mom. We love you too.” Even if she drives me nuts sometimes.

Her answering smile turns into a huge yawn. “Whew . . . I’m so tired all of a sudden.”

“Go ahead and have a nap,” I say. “I’ll make Grier some lunch, and we’ll come back later.”

“There’s a nice park a few minutes from here,” Mom says, her eyes already drifting shut.

I gesture for Gail to follow us into the kitchen. As I assemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Grier—my appetite has quickly disappeared—I ask Gail quietly, “How is she, really?”

She presses her lips together. “Well . . . let me put it this way. Today is one of her better-than-average days.” She hastens to add, “But not by much. And compared to other patients at this stage, she’s doing excellently. She doesn’t need oxygen, and her pain and nausea are being managed very well.”

I let out a deep sigh as I hand Grier her plate. “I guess that’s all we can really hope for.”

Gail rests her hand on my shoulder briefly. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. But having her family around is already doing her so much good.”

“Thank you,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

She leaves to go watch over Mom. While Grier eats, I pull out my phone to find the park Mom was talking about.

? ? ?

“Higher Daddy!” Grier yells between giggles.

I give her another push on the swing, making her kick her feet at the deep blue sky and shriek with excitement. Mom was right—this park is nice. Its playground is huge, clean, and features enough equipment to tire out even my little ball of energy.

There are other kids around for her to play with, but not so many that it’s too crowded. Nearby, a group of people are doing Pilates on the grass, and every so often, a jogger or dog walker goes by. I can easily imagine us picnicking under the towering oak trees this summer, crunching through autumn leaves and sledding down the gently rolling hills in winter.

Well, maybe not so much that last one. I chuckle to myself. Gotta remember we’re much farther south now.

After a few more minutes on the swings, Grier finally demands, “Done now. Upsies.”

I lift her out of the seat and set her down. She toddles off to the sandbox to begin digging a hole with laser focus.

I sit down on the nearest bench and enjoy the sun, letting my eyes close for a moment. That is, until I hear a voice that itches at my brain with a familiarity I’d never forget.

The woman who’s just passed us with an exercise mat rolled up under her arm doesn’t just sound achingly familiar, she looks it too. The dark blond hair from my memories and the body from my dreams. She’s almost the spitting image of . . .

I jump to my feet. “Corrigan?”

She freezes, then slowly turns around.

I’m not just imagining this. It is her.

And holy shit, little Cori’s all grown up.





5




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CORRIGAN



Allow me to be perfectly clear—I don’t like working out.

I think people who say they like working out are lying, or else they’re just certifiably insane. I’ve tried the gym, home workouts, personal trainers and even those fancy barre classes that play fun, upbeat pop tunes. But so far none of them have been my thing.

You know what else isn’t my thing? Spending nine hours tossing and turning while running through worst-case scenarios of why Lexington called me last night. I’m a worrier by nature, but after listening to his voice mail, what I experienced was a whole new level of stress. I’m talking sleepless, not even melatonin can save me now stress.

So this morning, when my favorite What’s Happening in Wilmington blog directed me to this free workout class in the park, I thought I’d give physical fitness one more shot. All in the name of endorphins and sweating out every memory of Lexington Dane so I could attempt to move on yet again.

Now, freshly sweaty from three rounds of intense intervals in the summer sun, I’m feeling a little bit better and a lot out of breath. Luckily, I still have plenty of time to head home and change before I meet Sarah Jo for brunch. As I head back to my car, I tap my smartwatch to get a read on how many calories I just burned to determine if I can justify pancakes and hash browns. As I do the mental math of calories burned vs calories about to be consumed, a familiar voice behind me brings my tennis shoes to a screeching halt.

“Corrigan?”

Just the sound of my name in that deep, raspy voice sends a bristle up my spine, making me stand up a little straighter. I know that voice all too well. It’s the same one from the voice mail, and from my daydreams and nightmares over the last ten years. And now it sends my heart rate even higher than it was during that last round of burpees.

This can’t be happening. Especially not now, when I haven’t washed my hair in three days, and I probably smell like a dirty gym sock.

Oh God.

I look down at my oversize T-shirt, which is sticking to me in all the wrong places. Maybe my imagination is playing dirty tricks on me. I should just ignore it and keep walking.