“I’m pretty sure you need to be mainlining some water,” Miranda said. “Or you’ll be flirting with the fourth Fury in the form of a massive hangover in the morning.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Norah applied herself to the task with the same single-minded focus she applied to everything. She dutifully ate and drank everything pushed on her, staying quiet as conversation flowed around her and the others got up, now and then, to dance some more. Cam assumed her silence had more to do with the topics of conversation—local gossip about people she didn’t know—until he felt a weight heavy against his arm.
“And that would be the other reason she never has more than one,” Miranda said. “She falls asleep. She almost never stops, so when something does finally knock her on her ass, she stays down.”
Because no one takes care of her. When she’d cut things off, he’d stopped trying. He regretted it now, seeing the hollows in her cheeks. Had she been sleeping? Eating enough? “She’s been working herself into the ground.”
“It’s what she does. You give her a war and she’ll fight it, with or without an army. She has more heart and generosity than anyone I know, but it takes a toll on her.” Miranda sighed. “I need to be getting home. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. It’ll take an act of God to wake her up.”
“Let her sleep. I’ll help you get her home.” Cam reached around and lifted Norah into his arms. She snuggled into him, one arm curling around his neck, the other resting against his chest as she nuzzled into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It was a childlike motion, trusting and vulnerable. Norah wasn’t a woman who accepted or showed vulnerability, and Cam felt something in him stutter. He needed to take care of this woman. Needed to keep her safe, to make her smile. He just plain needed her. And whether she wanted to or not, she needed him, too.
Miranda slid out of the booth.
Resisting the urge to stroke Norah’s hair back or press a kiss to her head, he slid out himself and hoisted Norah up. “Come on, Wonder Woman. Time for you to sleep it off.”
Chapter 11
“We officially swept the entire letters to the editor section for the last three days.” Grammy checked a list. “That brings our total to…sixteen.”
Norah fought to keep her voice level and professional. “Excellent. Are your letter writers prepared to expand the scope? We really want to get the word out regionally. Hit up the papers in Lawley, Oxford, Starkville, all the areas that would be impacted by this change.”
“I’ll get them started tonight.”
She paused to guzzle the fresh glass of water Aunt Liz had set out for her. Now if only she had an aspirin the size of Alabama. No one had said a word about the fact that she looked like death—she was good with makeup—but Aunt Liz’s silent solicitude made her wonder if last night’s antics had already spread around town, or at least through the family.
The front door opened. “Honey, I’m hoooome!”
Norah held in a groan—something she’d become a champ at since she left the house this morning with one of the worst hangovers of her life—as Mitch strolled, whistling, into the living room. He was one of the last people she wanted to see right now. Along with everyone else who’d been at the Mudcat for her encounter with the Three Furies last night. She was never going drinking with Piper, ever again.
“Well, hey there, sugar. I didn’t expect you to be up at all today, let alone among the land of the living.”
“I feel like death warmed over, but I’m not going to shirk my duty because of one supremely bad decision.” She didn’t know for sure what she’d done to embarrass herself beyond that horrific dance with Tucker, but she had dim memories of admitting to Cam that she missed him and then crawling into his lap to sleep. She was really hoping that part was a dream. And then there was the matter of how the hell she’d gotten home. Miranda hadn’t said and Norah hadn’t asked.
She consulted her notepad. “Next order of business: The coalition’s order of pamphlets and fliers at Poor Richard’s is ready. It needs to be picked up and distributed.”
Mitch flopped down on the sofa and stretched out his long, long legs. “I should be able to get to that between site visits.”
“I’ve got the list of who needs to get what,” Aunt Liz said. “If you can bring everything by this evening, I can work on getting that sorted.”
“Great. The media campaign is going well. I’m scheduled for an interview at the radio station at the end of the week. That, in conjunction with the spot WCBI did with Molly last week about the coalition, is a really great start. We’re getting the word out and, in a lot of cases, are the first side of this many people are hearing. Now we just have to keep it up so we stay at the forefront of people’s minds. I’m still waiting to hear back from WTVA.”
The front door opened again, and Norah felt her heart leap, knowing it was Cam. A strange mix of emotions swirled through her. Hope that their hard work had paid off, that Wishful was safe. Terror, too, that all this might be over, that her alleged reason for being here was finished, and she would have to make the hard decision about what came
next without the benefit of external factors dictating her actions. That she’d have to walk away from him for real.
Cam’s face was rigid when he walked into the room.
Norah was on her feet, across the room to him before she could stop herself. “What?”
“Read it.” He thrust a wad of papers at her.
The economic impact report.
Frowning as he moved off to pace with frenetic irritation, she began to read. Her stomach sank as she hit the second page, but she kept reading, searching for the qualifying argument, the refutation that would’ve signified balanced investigation. It never came.
“This can’t be right. This contradicts almost everything I’ve read in the literature.