I hold her close, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’m here, okay? You’re safe.”
“Teagan, is that you?” the guy asks.
She swallows, and I can feel the faint tremor of her shaking hands as she grips my arms. In the next moment, she pastes on a smile and turns her attention to the ex. As if noticing him there for the first time, she steps out from between me and the wall. “Oh my goodness! Rich? Is that really you?”
The bastard’s gaze is all over her. I understand the instinct—she’s gorgeous, and tonight she’s wearing black shorts that show off her legs and a Jackson Brews T-shirt that stretches tight across her chest. Any hetero, red-blooded male would struggle not to look twice. But there’s an ownership in the way this guy looks at her that makes my blood boil.
Teagan takes my hand and squeezes hard. “Carter, this is my old friend, Rich. Rich, this is my”—she stumbles for a beat—“Carter.”
I extend my hand to Rich, who takes it in his meaty fist and tries to crush my bones. I smile and give him my typical firm handshake. Unlike Meathead here, some of us don’t need to crush bones to convince people we have functioning dicks.
Rich drops my hand and smiles at Teagan. “Much more than friends during the good times,” he murmurs.
She stiffens beside me, but her only response is a noncommittal hum.
“Can we talk?” he asks, nodding toward the booths at the back of the bar.
“I . . .” Her eyes dart to mine, panicked. “I would, but . . .”
“We’re celebrating our anniversary tonight,” I say. “We’d love to catch up another time, man, but tonight is about us.”
“Anniversary?”
Teagan nods and steps into me. I wrap my arm around her, flattening my palm against her stomach.
Rich’s expression wavers between disappointment and disbelief. “Your mom didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.”
“It’s . . . new,” Teagan says.
“New?” He folds his arms. “You just said you were celebrating your anniversary.”
“Two months,” I say before dropping my mouth to her ear and stage-whispering, “The best two months of my life.”
“I’m here for a conference,” Rich says, eyes searching Teagan’s face. “Maybe we can meet for breakfast before I head home tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I . . . well . . .”
“We’d love to,” I say, unreasonably satisfied by his scowl when I invite myself, “but Teagan has to work.”
“I do.”
“Coffee on your break, then?” he asks.
Dude can’t take no for an answer.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says softly.
“I miss you.” He steps forward. “We all miss you. Your parents want you to come home.”
“She is home.” Everything else about this conversation might be an act, but those words couldn’t be truer. Jackson Harbor is where Teagan belongs, and it wouldn’t be the same without her. I smile down at her. “We should plan a trip to see your folks soon. I can’t wait to meet them.”
She swallows. “Yeah, they’d love that.”
Rich gives her a final hard look. “I don’t need to leave until lunch tomorrow. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.” He holds my gaze as he backs away. “Happy anniversary.”
I pretend I can’t hear the derision in his voice. “Thanks, man.” I pull Teagan fully into my arms, like holding her is the most natural thing in the world. It kind of is.
I hold my friend until her panic subsides. Until fear I’ve never before seen in her eyes fades away and she steps back. “He’s gone. He left. Thank you.”
“Who is he?” I’m cold everywhere her body touched mine.
“A mistake,” she says, shaking her head. “And the man my parents desperately wanted me to marry.”
Damn. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” It’s not her words as much as her body language—the stiff posture and the space she puts between us—that informs me I’ve been firmly shoved back to my side of the friendship line she’s drawn between us.
“Hey.” I want to chase after her, to drag her into the light somewhere so I can see her face and have a clue what she might be thinking. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. We should probably find Jake and explain before he tells Ava and the rumors start flying.”
Teagan
Present day . . .
“Okay, mister, how’s the pain level this morning?” I ask as I head into my latest admit’s room.
Isaiah Goldright turns his sleepy eyes on me and gives me a wide grin. “Better now that I’m looking at you.”
Shaking my head, I check his vitals and IV fluids. “I’m sure.”
This kid has been charming the pants off the pediatric nurses since he came in through the ER. I know what brought him here—the blood-alcohol level of point-one-two that made him steer his car right down the side of the hill and into a tree at sixty miles per hour. Still, the social worker and ER both gave him lectures already. It’s not my place to pile on, even if that means biting my tongue every time I walk in the room.