Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(86)

And I was right.

Hours slipped by as I stared blankly at ESPN, hardly noticing when it switched from baseball scores and highlights to a bowling tournament in Sarasota.

The clock on the DVD player read three a.m. when I heard Alex cry out from her bedroom. Not quite loud enough to be a scream, but enough that I heard it through her closed door and from the opposite end of the house. Another muffled, terrified cry followed the first, and I threw off the blanket and sat up, ready to fly to her. One more sound and I would…

But there came only silence and I hung my head in my hands. She’s right, I thought miserably, I am an *.

“Cory…”

My head snapped up and she was there, hugging herself tightly. Her eyes were haunted, likely by the visions in her nightmare, and my heart ached for her as if I’d been shot all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry, but it was bad. The worst one yet.”

“Come here,” I said, my voice thick. “Come here, Alex.”

She sat beside me and I eschewed the whole shoulder bit, but took her in my arms and held her. Her pulse was quick, her breathing shallow, and she trembled as if she were freezing to death.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

She shook her head against my chest. “No. I just…No…”

“It’s okay.” I dared to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

I lay out lengthwise on the couch, taking her with me. I held her tightly and stroked her hair until her trembling ceased and she fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep. My own eyes began to close and I was helpless to fight it.

You’re what I want, Alex, I thought, my last thoughts before I went under. You. I want you…





Chapter Thirty-One


Alex



I awoke on Friday morning wrapped in Cory’s arms, safe and content—and no dreams, erotic or otherwise, to mar the morning. Our argument the night before was forgiven and forgotten—it was easy to do in the face of the bank robbery nightmares. When you’ve had a gun pressed to the back of your skull, as I had, or been shot in the chest, as Cory had, little squabbles tended to lose their punch.

He went to work, and I set about running errands and making plans.

I was supposed to have another appointment with Dr. Kinley, but I cancelled. He’d given me the diagnosis I had needed—or at least supplied me with the right terminology. I had looked up Separation Anxiety Disorder online and though I really only had the one symptom—inability to sleep without the person to whom I was attached—and that was enough. I didn’t need any more therapy.

Besides, I had a promise to keep to a little girl, I thought with a smile, and I never broke a promise.

Saturday morning arrived, and I brushed off the nightmare that had plagued me most of the night, vowing not to let it ruin my day. Or, more importantly, Cory’s day.

In the kitchen, I made coffee as Cory yawned and stretched on the couch.

“So, what are you up to today?” I asked. “More studying?”

“Yep. I’m pretty sure my brain is reaching full capacity on this stuff, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

“That’s it? It’s Saturday. Not hanging with the guys tonight?” I asked as casually as I could. Of course, I had already called Vic and learned that Cory had eschewed all talk of going out for his birthday, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Nope.” He glanced at me. “What about you?”

“Mmmm, this and that,” I said. He’s not going to mention his birthday. Typical.

But instead of irritation I felt a gentle fondness for his pride. I was reminded again that it was real, not a false front put on for the sake of etiquette, and I vowed to stop giving him a hard time when he insisted on paying me back. Besides, I thought, hiding a smile, birthday presents can’t—and shouldn’t—be paid back.

“I’ve got the coffee ready,” I said, “but breakfast is going to take some time yet.”

He blinked at me. “You’re going to make breakfast? As in, cook?”

“Seems impossible, I know,” I said, “but my dad taught me how to make popovers when I was a kid and I thought I’d give them a whirl. It’s the one thing I know how to make. It’s the only thing I like to make.”

“What’s a popover?”

“You’ll see.”

He looked at me askance, a suspicious grin on his face.

“What?” I demanded. “Don’t you have a shower to take? Shoo. It’ll be ready when you’re done.”

He shook his head, laughing, and went to get ready while I labored over my mixing bowl, reading and rereading my father’s recipe, which he’d given me the other night at dinner. The light, hollow rolls rose like a soufflé in the oven, only if one got the ingredients, heat, and timing just right. My father had always been able to eyeball the amounts of eggs and butter just right, but I was out of practice. Once I got the popover tin in the oven, I peeked in on their progress every two minutes and clapped my hands in glee when they ballooned over perfectly.

I figured a man like Cory wouldn’t be satiated with only bread, and so I whipped up some scrambled eggs and sausages to go with the popovers, wincing as the sausage pan hissed and spit hot oil at me.