Serving Up Trouble

understand that, too.” She leaned forward, kissed him softly on the cheek and turned away.

Got to the door.

“Mom.”

She whirled around, the hope on her face making his throat tighten-a chronic condition these days. “I…love you, too.”

She put a shaking hand to her mouth. “Sam.”

He opened his arms. And with a sob, she walked right into them.

Chapter 15

One week later, Angie left the hospital, arms overflowing with flowers and get-well cards.

She left alone.

When the word had gone out that she’d be released, she’d received a strict message from Sam via one of the nurses. She was to wait until he got off work and he would drive her home.

She was to be coddled and cared for, apparently. But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be anyone’s burden or responsibility, not ever again.

She’d found her strength.

Not that she hadn’t appreciated the attention this week. It had been nice, reaffirming and in credibly touching to see how much everyone cared for her. She’d been ridiculously spoiled and, much to Sam’s frustration, never alone.

Secretly she’d been relieved that he’d not managed to get her alone, because she couldn’t possibly have maintained the smile she’d plastered on her face for long, the smile that said everything was just peachy.

It wasn’t.

And he had tried to get her alone. In fact, the more he tried, the more frustrated he became, which greatly amused Luke whenever he stopped by.

It had become Angie’s mission, cowardly as it was, to thwart Sam at every turn. She’d even convinced the doctor to release her earlier than planned, during a time she knew everyone would still be busy with their own lives. Especially Sam.

She left the hospital under her own steam. She would not be dumped while lying flat on her back, damn it.

A nurse ordered her a taxi, and when she got home, she stared at the front door and braced herself for the memories. Sam, and their first kiss. The break-in, and the subsequent terror. Not to mention the mess in her apartment she hadn’t quite finished cleaning up, a mess she now knew had been created by Tommy Wilson, Ellie and George’s son.

She still couldn’t think of them without a stab of pain at their betrayal.

No more pity, she reminded herself firmly, keys in her hand, which shook only slightly.

The door creaked open as it always did, and childishly she slammed her eyes closed at the last second.

But she couldn’t stand there on the porch all day. She felt weak from the effort it had taken to get this far. She hated that weakness.

By tomorrow she expected her body to be much more cooperative.

Knowing she had to, she slowly opened her eyes, but…there was no lingering mess, nothing out of place.

Even her plants had been repotted and the dirt vacuumed away.

Who would have done such a thing? Josephine didn’t have a key to her place. Her parents had a spare, but they’d never let them selves in, had never even come over except when she’d first moved in.

She wandered through, marveling at all the work. Even her clothes had been picked up. Folded.

And then she saw her kitchen table, and the box of unopened paints on top of a large pad of artist’s paper.

No note, but none was needed. Chest tight, she moved closer, touching the beautiful, new colors.

There was only one person who’d know to buy her such a gift. Only one person who would come to her apartment and make sure everything was cleaned up to spare her feelings, her memories.

Sam.

Her eyes welled and she sniffed loudly, deciding she could indulge in one last emotional moment. But suddenly, she felt bone-deep tired. She sank to a chair at the table and stared at the new things. What she’d give for the energy to dig right in and lose herself in her artwork.

Later.

Because right now she felt like putting her head on her arms and just…falling asleep.

Sam found her like that, and at the sight his heart broke a little.

Her sweater had fallen off one shoulder. Beneath the thin T-shirt she wore were the bandages on her shoulder and torso, and his gut clenched as it had every single time he’d looked at her since she’d been shot. Since she’d nearly died in his arms.

Why hadn’t she waited for him at the hospital? Why had she come home alone?

Earlier he’d come with a cleaning crew to her apartment, had helped them put the place back together, so that she wouldn’t have to.

Then he’d gone to work for a while to face the mountain of paperwork waiting for him, but that hadn’t kept his attention for long. Nothing kept his attention long these days.

Except Angie.

Soon as he could, he’d gone to the hospital to bring her home. He’d planned on wooing her senseless with the paints and possibly a few of those mind-blowing kisses they always seemed to share, warming her up so that he could talk her into hearing what he had to say.

He knew she thought he wasn’t capable of deep emotion. He knew he’d hurt her with his reaction when she’d said she’d loved him.

He knew she thought they were through.

And truthfully, he’d considered just that, for all of two seconds.

Bottom line, he couldn’t live without her. He’d learned the hard way love wasn’t easy. Love could be blind. Love could hurt.

But without it, life wasn’t quite right. His life wasn’t quite right without her.

Now all he had to do was tell her. Convince her he meant it.

But, God, she looked beat with the faint purple smudges beneath her eyes and her entire body relaxed in a way that told him she was out for the count. She probably hadn’t slept decently at the hospital, and needed nothing but rest. Alone.

He’d gotten that message clear enough when he’d gone to the hospital and found an empty bed. That had nearly given him heart failure, until a nurse had told him she’d taken a cab.

Yes, she’d gotten his message, the nurse had assured him. And yes, she’d left anyway.

Leaning down, he softly brushed his lips against her cheek. She didn’t so much as twitch, not even when he ran a hand down her hair, over her slim back. Exhaustion, poor baby. Careful not to touch her bandages, he lifted her up against his chest.

She let out a little protesting murmur.

“Shh,” he whispered, his lips just below her ear. She felt so small, so vulnerable, and his gut clenched again, hard. “Just me.”

“I’m tired,” she said, eyes still closed.

“You need more sleep.”

“I’m not really up for company.” But she snaked her arms around his neck and held on tight.

“I’m not company.”

“Hmm.” She put her face to his throat. “Then what are you?”

He’d started walking with her, down the hallway, and stopped in the doorway to her bedroom.

What was he?