Page 27 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Simone

Keir has been avoiding me just as much as I avoid him.

It shouldn’t matter, but it’s strange. Did Atlas say something to him?

I’m not sure, but this morning I woke up to my usual ritual, stretching, meditation, and journaling.

It’s Sunday and I’m mentally preparing for my weekly call.

It’s the same call I’ve had for years and yet today feels strange.

It’s probably because I skipped it for the past two months. Every Saturday, I send a text apologizing because I have an emergency, or there’s a patient, or it’s just complicated. Complicated doesn’t cover it, does it.

When I shuffle toward the kitchen, something stops me short.

There’s a tray on the island with food: scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and a bowl of fresh fruit. He even sliced the kiwi—who does that? Everyone knows you scoop it with a spoon.

There’s a folded note resting beside the mug.

If I cook, can we have lunch together?

–KT

I stare at it.

Of course he signed it with his initials. The way he used to when he left notes on my locker so I would meet him by the lake or . . . it was the way we sometimes communicated when the other was too busy or I was pissed at something he had done.

It was some kind of brooding epistolary romance and not whatever this is—cohabitation hell? Domestic purgatory? A test of my rapidly deteriorating patience?

My pulse skips the same way it always does when Keir Timberbridge decides to play unpredictable.

It’s infuriating. That traitorous flutter under my ribs?

That’s not admiration. It’s not even hormones.

It’s just indigestion from how deeply annoying he is.

We’re not teenagers anymore, leave me the fuck alone, I want to scream.

I don’t.

Fucking Keir Timberbridge isn’t supposed to try.

He’s supposed to brood in corners and be an insufferable patient who refuses to follow orders and ruins his recovery just to prove a point.

I’ve built my expectations around that version of him.

Not this one—the one who cooks breakfast like we’re in some alternate universe where the past didn’t happen and emotional landmines aren’t scattered around every square inch of this house.

Nope. This version is dangerous.

Which is why I’m planning my exit strategy—again.

If Finn listens to reason, I’ll be out of here by midweek.

Back to the clinic. Back to some sliver of normal, even if it means seeing Keir only at night.

Not ideal, but manageable. Distance is the only thing keeping me sane.

That and the fantasy of smothering him in his sleep.

Not that I would. Obviously. The boss might fire me and there’s the pesky legalities of going to jail. I doubt any lawyer would take my case. Could I even plead insanity? No one in their right mind would be here after what I lived through and act this normal. No one.

What’s worse is the other possibility—the one that creeps in during quiet hours when I’m exhausted, gullible, and letting my guard down: that I’ll crack, sit across from him at this kitchen island, and have an actual conversation.

One of those soul-spilling, open-eyed, no-turning-back conversations.

No, thank you.

My brain is still spiraling when a knock jolts me—loud and way too decisive for this hour.

I freeze. Then sigh.

“If it’s a Timberbridge this early on a Sunday morning,” I mutter, crossing the room with the grace of someone already regretting her life choices, “I’m going to maim him, ask one of the agents to help me bury the body.

” Ooh, there’s an idea. I’ll put a pin in it for the next time Keir pisses me off.

When I swing open the door, it’s not a Timberbridge.

It’s Delilah.

And for one beautiful second, I’m relieved.

Until reality lands hard, Delilah shouldn’t be here.

Her hair’s pulled up in a quick twist, loose strands curled around her neck. She’s wearing that navy blue cardigan she wears around when someone is blasting the air-conditioning.

“Oh, great timing. I can prepare us some tea.”

“You’re making tea?” she repeats, brushing past me into the house. “You fake your death, disappear from Arizona to visit your grandparents, and your peace offering is tea?”

I close the door behind her. “It’s a really good blend. There’s this place in Washington State called Luna Harbor. I need to take you there. You’ll love it.”

That earns me a look—the same one her mom used to give me back when I made questionable choices in eyeliner and life. The look that says, I love you, but I will absolutely ground you until the end of time if you keep being this stupid.

I probably should’ve listened back then. Hindsight, meet regret.

But this isn’t about her mom or my tragic history of making decisions that age like milk.

And it’s definitely not about choices.

I didn’t choose to be in this fucking mess, did I?

Delilah shrugs off her cardigan and lets it slide onto the bench by the window without missing a beat. Her eyes move across the room like she’s scanning for signs of life—half-folded blanket on the couch, two tea mugs drying like awkward proof that I’m not alone.

I turn toward the stove, needing something to do—something that isn’t staring back at the friend I’ve hurt. My hands move on autopilot. Kettle filled. Burner on. The familiar click and hiss grounding me in the kind of way breathing can’t.

I reach for the tea tins. Skip the bold blends and opt for the one we always reserved for bad days: chamomile with a hint of vanilla. Comfort without questions. I spoon the leaves into the infuser, trying to ignore the way her presence is pressing in on every inch of the kitchen.

“What I can’t understand is . . .” she starts, her voice threading through the tension like she’s trying not to break it. “We’re friends, Sim.”

I keep my back to her, eyes on the kettle even though it hasn’t started to steam.

“Why not tell us you’d be here? At home. We were worried. The town might buy the grandparent excuse, but come on—we know. We know .”

Of course, they do. Gale, Del, Nysa, Blythe—my best friends—they know I don’t speak to my grandparents. That I haven’t in years. But I still help pay their bills, because they kept a roof over my head. Not love. Not safety. But shelter, and that counts for something, doesn’t it?

Although we don’t speak, they’re always the best alibi.

Even here, when everyone knows me it works.

If someone from town called to check on me, my grandparents would lie with the smoothness of people who’ve had decades of practice.

They’d spin a heartwarming tale of weekly phone calls and holiday dinners.

All to protect their image, because that’s all they’ve ever cared about.

I reach for two mugs. The nice ones. Delilah-deserves-better-than-paper-cups mugs.

“I’m sorry, I?—”

“You hid from us,” she interrupts, voice tight now. “Your friends.”

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” I say quickly, pouring the hot water over the tea. My fingers tremble slightly, so I grip the handles tighter. “I couldn’t tell you. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I wasn’t allowed to.”

She stays quiet for a beat too long, and when I finally look up, she’s watching me like she’s trying to translate a language she used to know.

“You’re going to have to do better than ‘I couldn’t,’ Sim.” She glares at me. “You’re a fucking doctor.”

“It’s not just classified,” I say as I slide her mug toward her. “It’s complicated.”

Her shoulders shift. “And you didn’t think I could handle complicated?” she asks, and her voice is so soft I almost miss the sting beneath it. “Friends don’t keep secrets.”

She looks past me.

Her gaze lands on the tray—the one I haven’t touched. Eggs, fruit bowl and bacon arranged like someone gave a damn. The note beside the plate. A note I’d rather not show her because it’d raise questions. Too many questions.

Delilah moves before I can stop her.

She steps around the island, picks up the note like she already knows what it is, like she has the right to know what it says. Her fingers unfold the paper slowly, and carefully, like peeling back gauze from a wound you suspect is worse than you’re ready to see.

Her eyes scan the words.

No gasp. No scoff. Just a single breath held tight in her chest. When she exhales, it’s quiet—but everything feels different now.

The air in the room pulls inward. There’s subtle drag, like the moment before a storm hits or the silence between heartbeats when you’re waiting for the worst.

She sets the note down as gently as she picks it up. Almost like it might explode.

“Somehow,” she says quietly, “if you got back with him, I would’ve thought you’d tell me.”

“Back?” I blink.

“You’re living with Keir. I heard that last night.” She taps the note as if it’s confirmation of everything she didn’t want to believe.

There it is. The thing she’s really here for.

And yeah, that’s fair.

I laugh. Not a cute, self-deprecating giggle. No. I bark it out—loud, unhinged, and probably a little scary. Yep, I’m losing my shit.

“You think I’m here by choice?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Simone. You used to be so different and now . . . I see it. Those times when we’re sharing stories and you freeze because . . . you can’t open up to us.”

Del is right, but also wrong. “I share as much as I can.” I honestly do, but it feels so isolating though.

They know most of the good things about me.

Doctor, surgeon, trauma, blah, blah, blah .

. . I work too much. That’s not all, but sometimes I feel like the rest doesn’t exist since this life is temporary and I don’t know if they’ll care about me once I pack my bags and leave.

That last part shouldn’t make my chest ache as much as it does.

Del scoffs and says, “I’ve missed you.”

And I—God, I don’t realize how badly I need to hear that until she says it. I turn back to the kettle, hiding the sting in my eyes.

“I missed you too.”

I slide her a mug without asking how she takes it. I already know. Chamomile with honey, no lemon. It’s the same blend I would’ve made the day after the coffee shop caught fire.

“Any updates about the fire?” I ask after a sip of my tea.

She scoffs again. “There you go, changing the subject. Taking away the focus from you and whatever is making you behave like . . . you belong, you know.”

That last part knocks something loose. I don’t know what to say. This town has never wanted me. I was the thing that ruined Nina. She could have been saved, but not after me.

“Sure, I belong, until they don’t need me,” I say out loud.

“We’re not talking about the town. Though, if you gave them a chance . . . they’re not exactly what they used to be. The new preacher has taught them the whole ‘love thy neighbor’ thing. No more ‘judging everyone’.”

I scoff. “No one can judge like him . . . well, my grandmother can, but that’s a different story.” I take a deep breath. “So how did you figure out I was here?”

“Cassian and Mal were talking.” She shrugs. “They were at my house. Mom was cooking, singing, and dancing, so they believed she had earbuds. Stupid men, they think they’re so smart.”

This would be a great moment to ask Cassian and Mal, huh?

It’s like sometimes I see her flirting with both, and others you see the two men too close to each other.

I don’t understand what’s going on among the three of them, and I wish she would tell me, but if I ask, then I’ll have to reciprocate, and that’s a no. I won’t discuss Keir with anyone.

“Your mom could be a spy,” I state. “Pretend she only speaks Spanish and just sweep through an entire house looking for a bathroom because she couldn’t follow instructions.”

“Please don’t give her ideas.” She gives me a warning look.

“What else did she find out?”

“Something about Keir’s company letting him go and a clearing of the office—his apartment.” She shrugs. “Then that once he can come out of your house, he’ll probably work for Old Birchwood Timber.”

“So . . . enough for you to conclude that if Keir is hiding in my house?—”

“You’re here too,” she concludes. She sets her mug down. “You don’t have to tell me anything. But if you ever need to say something out loud and not be judged for it, I’m here.”

I nod.

“Also,” she adds, a sly smile tugging at her lips, “if you don’t want everyone in town thinking you’re in Arizona on a goat yoga retreat, maybe throw up an out-of-office email that doesn’t sound like a Pinterest board.”

I snort. “I so didn’t do that.”

“Obviously. You don’t even use exclamation points.”

I roll my eyes. “Please tell me that’s not a thing.”

“Look, Gale might’ve started a rumor, okay.”

I gasp.

“She says you deserve it for leaving her mid-pregnancy.”

I lift my hands and shake my head. “She just finished her first trimester. I left perfectly good instructions, and I’ve been keeping an eye on her chart. Tell her to undo that rumor.”

“Nope. It stays unless you tell me about Keir.”

My phone rings, slicing through the moment. My stomach clenches. That tone only rings on Sundays. I hesitate. Should I answer in front of her?

She’ll ask questions and . . . do I want to answer any of them?