He knew what she meant, of course. The Haraldsons were rich, like Mrs. Burton, and he was a little black boy from nowhere—son of one of their neighbors’ hired help. Kiah had believed his mother when she said Mr. Haraldson would be angry if he found out but, to his surprise, it had been the complete opposite.
Without Mina and her family, who’d treated him as though he were one of their own, he’d have been lost, and who knew where he’d have ended up? They’d been there for him during all the worst moments in his life, in a way his mother never had.
Witnessing his father’s fatal heart attack, barely a month before meeting Mina, had devastated him, left him floundering, unmoored. Mina’s friendship had helped him get through it, just as it had helped him deal with his mother’s increasingly violent rage. And when his sister had died, she was the first person he’d called.
She was the best friend he’d ever had, and now she needed him to repay all the care she’d given him.
As Mina’s sobs abated, Kiah leaned forward, holding her with one arm, and snagged the box of tissues off the coffee table. Clearly, this wasn’t the first crying jag she’d had, if the used tissues strewn around were any indication. Pulling out a couple, he thrust them into her hand, noticing for the first time how she’d crossed her left arm over her body and tucked her stump out of sight.
His heart broke all over again.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, mopping at her face.
“For what?”
“For crying all over you, of course,” she replied, burying her face back into his neck. “For being such a soggy mess.”
He chuckled, as she no doubt meant him to, with the reference to one of the classifications they’d come up with for different types of people they’d met. “Soggy mess” was reserved for the whiny, weepy, complaining type. Not her at all.
And in his estimation, not what she should be apologizing to him for. She should be sorry for not telling him how deeply she’d sunk into depression, and for not asking for help. He was trying to formulate the right thing to say, but before he could figure it out, she sighed, and from the way she suddenly relaxed, he realized she was falling asleep. Then Mina conked right out, so abruptly he wondered how much rest she’d been getting.
Sliding down slightly in the couch, he made himself comfortable, cradling her across his lap. Eventually he’d transfer her to her bed, but not yet. If this was what she needed, he had no problem staying exactly where he was.
Reaching down, he gently took her left arm in his hand and lifted it. Mina didn’t stir as her sleeve dropped down, revealing the site of her transradial amputation. He was surprised that she wasn’t wearing a compression garment—a shrinker—since he’d read about the efficacy of its use for controlling edema, and how important it was for pre-prosthetic fitting.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask about how she was managing with the loss of her hand. Some of them he’d tried to ask her before, on the phone, and she’d brushed him off, wanting only to talk about her then-ongoing divorce from Warren the Worm. Just thinking about her ex-husband had his temper simmering, but Kiah pushed his antipathy aside. Now wasn’t the time to indulge.
Just as it wasn’t a good time for the dampness making him blink, as he looked at where Mina’s small but eminently capable hand used to be. The last thing she’d want, or probably needed, was his sympathy.
She’d always been driven, in control, and fearless. Whatever needed to be done, she’d been there with a plan. Seeing her like this, drifting and seemingly broken, was almost too much to bear.
Lifting her arm a little higher, he pressed a gentle kiss just above the surgical site and then laid it back across her stomach, making sure not to jostle it. He pulled the sleeve back across to cover the stump.
“I got you, sweet girl,” he whispered, before also kissing the top of her head. “Kiah’s got you.”
CHAPTER TWO
MINA DRIFTED UP from a dreamless sleep, the first she’d had in she couldn’t tell how long. Despite her eyes being gritty, she actually felt rested. When had that become such an anomaly that she had to lie still in bed for a few minutes savoring it?
Then she remembered.
“Kiah!”
Dammit, she must have fallen asleep after crying all over him the evening before. Had he left?
Then she noticed the faint sounds of reggae music coming from her living room, and what could only be kitchen noises. And...
“Mmm,” she muttered, tossing back the sheets. “Bacon.”
When she opened her bedroom door, it was to indeed find him in front of the stove, his head and shoulders moving in time to the music, and she leaned on the doorjamb to watch him, a smile spreading across her face.
As though sensing her regard, he turned to look over his shoulder, and his answering grin warmed her better than any blanket ever could.
“So you’re finally up, eh?” He did a little shimmy to the music and waved the spatula at her. “Sleepyhead.”
“Yeah,” she replied, suddenly aware of her grungy state and bed head. “Do I have time for a shower before breakfast?”
“Sure,” he said easily, turning back to the stove. “But don’t take too long, or everything will get cold.”
“I won’t,” she called, already heading back into her room, her stomach growling in protest of the wait. She could also smell ripe plantain frying, and it had been far too long since she’d had any of the island delicacy. He must have gone to the grocery while she was sleeping, since she knew there definitely hadn’t been any food in the house.
Rushing through a shower, but taking the time to wash her hair, she tried not to think about the grilling Kiah was bound to give her after he fed her, if he
