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I fall to my knees and break down in tears over knowing Bailey’s safe.
And Laura’s broken, all because of me.
Chapter
Sixty-Two
Fear isn’t exclusive. It doesn’t give you a license for anything. It certainly doesn’t give you a right to take your emotions out on the people who love you—a lesson I’ve learned well in the time since Laura disappeared from my life. I’ve also learned the woman I love has more courage than half the people I work with. She essentially used herself as a body shield for my daughter, kept a hostage situation as under control as it could be, and still managed to limit my daughter’s injuries.
In other words, she was just Laura.
With this knowledge, I spend my days with a morose child who misses Laura as much as I do. At night, I work. I don’t sleep because I’m chased by one of two very different nightmares—one where Caleb doesn’t save Bailey and Laura and the other where Laura walks away.
Both terrify me because they’re so vivid in their reality.
Dragging my knees up, I brace my elbows on them as my hands thrust into my hair. “Where are you, Laura?”
I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t get her back.
Get her to talk to me.
I need to apologize.
Chapter
Sixty-Three
Two weeks later, I stretch my legs out and let the warmth of the California sun relentlessly beat down on them. Tipping my head back, I sigh, “I should show up in the middle of the night more often.”
The devastatingly handsome man lying in the double lounger next to me reaches over and tugs at a lock of my hair. “You should. I’ve missed your face despite the fact it’s looking a bit beat up, love.”
Turning to face my cousin Zachary Peter Hunt—known around the world as heartthrob Food Network television host Peter Freeman—I somehow manage to tip one corner of my lips up for the briefest of moments. “Better?”
“Hardly,” he drawls. Tipping his mirrored sunglasses down his nose, his gold-colored eyes meet mine. “I hope my father and Uncle Keene fillet the bastard and squeeze lemon juice over his bloodied skin before grilling him over an open flame.”
“Pete, this isn’t a rerun of Cutthroat Kitchen. Dining on him won’t help,” Kalie mutters from Peter’s other side, where she’s sharing a lounger with Grace.
Peter’s expression is appalled. “Kalie, you should know by now I don’t eat second rate trash. But if the family doesn’t want the wet work, I’ll happily demonstrate what I can do with a meat tenderizer.”
As heartbroken as I am, I still manage a sardonic, “I bet you I can still wield a scalpel better than you can a chef’s knife.”
Peter smirks at me, giving me a smile that used to drive me, Kalie, and Grace insane as teenagers because it’s so sanctimonious. Now, that same smile causes hordes of women to whisper more than their favorite recipes in his ear. “Oh, darling. Let’s have a cook off tonight and let me prove to you how wrong you are.”
Haughtily, I lower my own glasses. “I never said I was a better cook, Pete. I just reminded you I have better knife skills.”
Grace yawns before reminding Peter, “Even your mother says so.”
Peter’s golden eyes spike with brown, exactly the same way Aunt Corinna’s do when she’s infuriated. He jabs a finger in my direction and challenges, “You, me, and wagyu beef tonight. We’ll put this to rest once and for all.”
Kalie immediately declares, “I’m on Team Laura.”
Grace grumbles. “Why do I always get stuck on Team Pete? He doesn’t let me do crap except clean up his mess. I’m not one of his damn minions.”
Being the good sport he is—at least with family—Peter grins at Grace before conceding, “If Laura kicks my ass tonight, I’ll do the dishes for both of us.”
Kalie taunts. “We know that’s going to happen, Pete.”
Grace scoffs, “And that means what? You’ll put in a 9-1-1 call to your maid service?”