Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(50)

“Graham, no. I just had a fight with Zach, that’s all. I’m sad about that. Please, don’t worry about anything.”

Don’t come over here. I’ll lose my everlovin’ mind. I can’t resist you.

“I’m coming. Fifteen minutes.” He hung up before she could argue further. She could send a text, but that wouldn’t matter. He would ignore it.

She got up, shaky yet on her legs, and closed her laptop. Even without Graham coming over, her productivity was shot for the night. She got a bottle of water and stood beside the door, waiting for his text that he was there. At this time of night, she knew he wouldn’t knock in case Zach went to bed early.

She was proved right when the text came ten minutes later.

I’m here. Please let me in. Don’t turn me away.

She opened the door and stood, watching him. He looked tired. Exhausted, actually. “Is everything okay?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He stepped in as she widened the door, shut it behind him, then enveloped her in a strong, unbreakable hug. She wanted to be resistant, but couldn’t, and her arms came around him, seeking comfort.

“Hey, hey.” He cupped the back of her head as she nuzzled in, whispering softly and swaying as if they were on the dance floor instead of in her apartment. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I . . .” She fought back the tears, fought so hard, then decided now was as good a time as any to let some release. “I’m sorry but I’m about to—” She hiccupped, and that was the end of holding back. She burst into tears.


*

WORRIED, Graham held Kara while she cried. She’d mentioned a fight with Zach—natural enough for most parent-child relationships, but not for theirs—yet this crying jag seemed disproportionate for a simple fight with her son.

“Let’s . . . okay, then.” He held her tighter when she sobbed. “Let’s sit on the couch for a bit.”

She shook her head vigorously against his chest, but didn’t say more, just kept crying.

So he stood and held her, knowing it would eventually pass, wondering what in the world had set her off. Kara was a practical, intelligent woman. She wouldn’t break down into tears over something silly. It had to be real, and it had to be important.

Zach peeked around the corner, his eyes wide with surprise. “Mom?” he mouthed.

Graham shook his head, giving him a hand signal that said, Give it a minute.

The boy took another few cautious steps toward them. He was completely out of Kara’s line of sight—though everything was, with her face buried against his shirt like that—and he seemed to want to stay that way. His eyes watched his mother’s shoulders shake, sadness and regret clear in them. “I made her cry,” he whispered.

“She’ll be okay. Can you put yourself to bed tonight?”

He nodded rapidly, ready to prove himself worthy of the task. He tried one more step forward, then turned and ran back to his room, shutting the door quietly.

They’d be alone for the night, Graham knew. Nothing turned a boy’s blood cold faster than his own mother’s tears.

They were doing a number on him, and he was nearly thirty.

When she didn’t seem to slow down, Graham took matters into his own hands and picked her up, carrying her to her bedroom. The couch might have been closer, but he sensed they needed privacy for whatever was bothering her. Because, while he had no problem letting her cry on his shoulder, giving her some space to get the worst of the emotions out, there was no way he was leaving without hearing the issue so he could help. He had to help her, damn it.

Settling back against her headboard, he cuddled her in his lap and let the tears run their course. After another five minutes, she sniffled and sighed, hand clenching in his shirt.

He smoothed back a few strands of hair stuck to her temple. “Better?”

“Sorry,” was her watery, muffled reply.

“Never be sorry. You’re allowed to cry when you need to. If you don’t let it go sometimes, it makes you sick. I have a feeling you haven’t been letting it go for some time now.”

“Who has the time for a weep session when you’ve got a son to raise?” Though they could have been, the words weren’t spoken bitterly. Simply said with the practical curtness he knew she took on when attacking a task at hand. “I’ll be better in the morning. Thanks for letting me cry on you.”

“No way. We’re not done.” When she lifted her head to glare at him, he smiled and kissed her between her brows. “The whole mean mug loses its effectiveness when you do it with red, puffy eyes.”

She gasped at him, then slapped at his chest and hopped down. He watched while she walked to the tiny attached half bath and closed the door. He’d give her another few minutes to pull it together, and then they were going to discuss what the hell was going on with her. And because he didn’t believe in keeping people he loved in the dark—and hell, yes, he loved her, and Zach—he’d tell her about the brick. She might have insight on who could have done it.

When she opened the door a few moments later, Kara was pulled together. Or as pulled together as she could be in sweats with dried paint flecks, red eyes and a red nose. Her hair had been tamed though, and her jaw was firm.

“Don’t even try to send me away,” he warned before she could speak. “I’m here, and I’m going to hear your problems, then you’re going to hear mine. That’s what people in a relationship do. Then we’ll talk about what I’d wanted to discuss with you this evening before all the other shit went down.”