Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Her arms tightened around me as she felt the shudder roll through my body.

This was about my dad.

When my dad hurt, I hurt.

That’s the way it was with the people you loved.

I’d put myself through the torture of seeing Michael again if it meant being there for my father when he needed me. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to cry over the prospect.

“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I can do this.”

My best friend gripped my upper arms and bent her head to peer into my face. “Yeah, you absolutely can. However, we’re doing your makeup before you leave. You are not going back to Boston looking anything but your best, sexiest self.”

I rolled my eyes and groaned. “I’m going back for my dad, not for anything else.”

She followed me as I continued down the boardwalk. “It doesn’t mean you can’t look good. You would have said the same

to me about Vaughn.”

“Vaughn’s not married. And considering the delicate reason I am returning to my hometown, I think your commentary is inappropriate.”

We were quiet as we passed Antonio’s, our friends Iris and Ira’s Italian pizzeria.

And then as we neared my shop, Bailey asked, “You’re going to pack the blue dress though, right?”

Knowing exactly what dress she was referring to, I threw her a dirty look. But on second thought … “Which shoes should I pack with that?”

Bailey grinned, and we argued all the way to my car, parked behind my store, about my reason for agreeing to pack the blue dress. Just like that, she momentarily took my mind off my dad’s problems.

That right there was one of Bailey Hartwell’s greatest gifts.

My childhood home seemed smaller than I remembered. It was a two-story in the northeast of Everett. The only reason my parents could afford the house was that it had belonged to my grandparents. My grandfather died when Dad was a kid, and he and my mom had moved in with my paternal grandmother when Darragh was born. Grandma passed away two months before I came into the world, so I never met her. She left the house to Dad in her will.

Concrete steps led up to our blue front door. Dad kept the white wooden shingles clean and painted fresh every few years, and he’d told me he’d replaced the gray slate roof tiles last year. Blue shutters decorated the front window and the two small windows on the second floor. There was a side entrance, like a miniature version of the front, that led into the kitchen, which was the largest room in the house.

The kitchen had been redone, and the living room had been redecorated. But it smelled the same. Categorizing the smell was hard—kind of a mix of scents the house had acquired over the years, ingrained into the walls. Furniture polish, Mom’s roast dinner, and a unique aroma that was all McGuire.

Dad led me to Dermot and Darragh’s old room. It used to smell like the boys’ locker room, and you couldn’t even put a foot inside without stepping on something, the floor was that badly littered with all their crap. Now it was a tidy guest room with two twin beds neatly made in plain gray bedding.

“I thought you might want to stay in this room.” My dad’s voice was gruff.

I glanced over my shoulder at the closed door behind us. It was the old room I’d shared with Davina and Dillon. We’d forever been arguing because we were so on top of each other. Then Davina went to college and Dillon and I had shared it.

Dad was right. I didn’t want to sleep in that room.

“Thanks.” I kissed his cheek and strolled into my brothers’ old room.

Dad placed my suitcase on the farthest bed and turned to me. “Can’t tell you how good it is to have you here.”

I studied him. My dad was one of those men who grew more distinguished with age. Being a firefighter, he’d stayed in shape his whole life. He’d moved up the ranks to lieutenant to captain to deputy chief, and he was now chief of District Three and had been for nearly a decade. He was fifty-six and nearing retirement, but I couldn’t imagine my dad ever retiring.

There was always, usually, a radiant cloud of energy around Cian McGuire. He’d done a hard, dangerous job his whole life and he’d seen a lot of tragedy in his time, but somehow it hadn’t chipped away at his soul or his good humor.

Now that energy seemed to have drained from him. The only other time I’d seen my dad like this was when Dillon died. And even then, he’d been so distracted by the mess I was making of my life, he hadn’t had time to entirely give into his heartsickness.

I was worried about him. “Are you depressed, Dad?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a depressed person.”